The last thing Rebecca remembered was rain.
She'd been walking home from yet another disastrous Tinder date, a man who'd spent two hours explaining why crypto was the future of romance, when the sky opened. She'd taken shelter in a doorway, pulled out her phone to text her best friend the update ("He used the phrase 'digital courtship' unironically"), and then...
Lightning? A very bright flash? A strange tingling sensation?
When she opened her eyes, she was lying in a muddy field, wearing clothes that absolutely were not hers, and a horse-drawn carriage was approaching.
The carriage stopped. A footman in actual livery looked down at her with an expression of profound disapproval. "Miss? Are you unwell?"
Rebecca blinked. "I'm... I think I'm in the wrong century."
He did not find this funny.
Three hours later, Rebecca had established several facts:
She was, impossibly, in Regency England. Approximately 1813, based on the newspaper someone left in the parlour.
She was now "Miss Rebecca Woodhouse," a distant cousin of the family who'd taken her in after her "accident."
No one believed her when she explained about Tinder, smartphones, or the concept of "ghosting."
Everyone was extremely concerned about her "propriety," a word she'd heard more times in three hours than in her entire previous life.
The family who'd rescued her, the Bertrams, were kind but bewildered. They kept asking about her memories, her family, her "condition." Rebecca kept asking about the hot guy who'd ridden past on a horse and glared at her with an intensity that made her knees weak.
"That's Mr. Alexander Thornton," her new "cousin" Emily whispered, scandalised. "He's... difficult."
"Difficult how?"
"Brooding. Intense. He rarely smiles. Last year, he told Lady Catherine's daughter that he couldn't marry her because she talked too much."
Rebecca's heart grew three sizes. "Oh my god, he's Mr. Darcy."
"Who?"
"Nothing. Tell me everything."
The rules of Regency courtship, Rebecca quickly learned, were designed by sadists.
She couldn't speak to a man without a chaperone. She couldn't write to a man without permission. She couldn't dance more than two dances with the same man, lest people assume they were engaged. The entire system was a labyrinth of "may"s and "may not"s designed to prevent exactly what Rebecca wanted most: to get to know someone interesting.
Mr. Alexander Thornton was very, very interesting.
He appeared at every social event Rebecca attended, always at the edges, always watching. He spoke rarely, smiled never, and had a way of looking at her that made her feel like he could see through her clothes. When she caught his eye, he looked away immediately—but not before she saw something flicker there. Curiosity, maybe. Hunger.
Rebecca decided to apply 21st-century dating strategies to 19th-century problems.
Strategy One: The Direct Approach
At a country dance, she walked straight up to him. No chaperone. No introduction. No warning.
"Mr. Thornton."
He stared at her like she'd grown a second head. "Miss Woodhouse. This is... highly irregular."
"I know. I wanted to talk to you."
"We are not acquainted."
"We could be. That's how acquaintance works. You talk to someone, you become acquainted."
He looked around desperately, as if hoping a chaperone would materialise. None did. Rebecca had strategically positioned them behind a large plant.
"You are very forward," he said.
"You're very brooding. I like it."
Something shifted in his eyes. Amusement? Interest? "You are unlike anyone I have met."
"I get that a lot. Walk with me."
"Miss Woodhouse—"
"Just to the garden. Five minutes. If you're not intrigued by then, I'll never speak to you again."
He hesitated. Then, impossibly, he offered his arm.
The garden was moonlit and beautiful. Rebecca's heart pounded. This was working. She was actually flirting with a Regency man, and he was responding.
"You're different from the other women here," he said. "You don't simper."
"Is simpering required?"
"Generally, yes."
"Sounds exhausting."
He almost smiled. Almost. "It is."
They walked in silence for a moment. Rebecca considered her next move. In 2024, she'd suggest coffee, exchange numbers, maybe go for a drink. Here, the options were limited.
"I'd like to know you," she said. "Really know you. Not just the version you show at parties."
He stopped walking. Turned to face her. The moonlight caught his features—sharp cheekbones, dark eyes, a mouth that looked like it had forgotten how to smile.
"Why?"
"Because you're interesting. Because you look at me like you're actually seeing me, not just assessing my marriageability. Because everyone else here is so polite it makes my teeth hurt, and you're not."
He stared at her for a long moment. Then, slowly, his hand came up and touched her face. Just his fingers, tracing her cheekbone, her jaw, the corner of her mouth.
"You are a dangerous woman, Miss Woodhouse."
"Rebecca. Call me Rebecca."
"Rebecca." Her name in his mouth was the most erotic thing she'd ever heard. "If I kiss you now, I will have to marry you."
"Would that be so terrible?"
His eyes darkened. "No. That's the problem."
He didn't kiss her. He stepped back, composed himself, and walked away. Rebecca stood in the garden, heart racing, more aroused than she'd been in years.
Strategy Two: Flirtatious Notes
In Rebecca's century, flirting happened over text. Emojis, gifs, the occasional risky photo. In 1813, flirting happened over letters, actual, handwritten letters that took days to arrive.
Rebecca adapted.
She wrote Mr. Thornton notes. Not proper, formal notes—those were boring. She wrote him messages like:
I saw you at church. You looked bored. I was bored too. We could be bored together sometime. —S
If you're going to stare at me at parties, at least have the courage to speak. I promise I won't bite. Unless you ask nicely. —S
The chicken at dinner was terrible. I thought you should know. Also, your cravat was crooked. It was charming. —S
The servants who delivered these notes looked increasingly scandalised. Mr. Thornton's responses, when they came, were brief but telling:
You are incorrigible. —A
I am not staring. I am observing. There is a difference. —A
My cravat is never crooked. You are imagining things. —A
But at the next ball, his cravat was slightly crooked. Rebecca caught his eye and smiled. He looked away quickly, but not before she saw the corner of his mouth twitch.
Strategy Three: Physical Contact
Regency England had strict rules about touching. A hand on a waist during a dance was acceptable. Anything more was scandalous.
Rebecca decided to be very, very scandalous.
She arranged to "accidentally" encounter him in the library. The Bertrams' library was dusty, private, and perfect. When he walked in, she was waiting.
"Miss Woodhouse." His voice was strained. "This is"
"Inappropriate. I know." She stepped closer. "Do you want me to leave?"
He didn't answer. His eyes were fixed on her mouth.
"I'll take that as a no."
She closed the distance between them. He was taller than her, broader, and when she pressed her hand to his chest, she could feel his heart pounding.
"Rebecca"
"Kiss me, Alexander."
"Your reputation"
"Screw my reputation."
He didn't know what "screw" meant, but he understood her meaning. His hands found her waist, pulling her close, and then his mouth was on hers.
It was nothing like 21st century kissing. It was slower, more deliberate, weighted with the knowledge that this single act could ruin them both. His lips were soft but demanding, his tongue tentative at first, then bolder. Rebecca melted into him, her hands fisting in his coat, pulling him closer.
When they finally broke apart, both breathless, he looked at her with an expression she couldn't read.
"You have ruined me," he said.
"Good."
"For any other woman. I will never" He kissed her again, harder this time. "You are impossible."
"I've been told."
His hands were more adventurous now, sliding down her back, pressing her hips against his. She could feel how much he wanted her, the evidence was unmistakable.
"Alexander," she whispered. "We don't have much time."
"Then we should make the most of it."
He lifted her onto the edge of the library table, pushing aside books and papers. Her skirts bunched around her waist, and his hands found her bare legs, no tights in 1813, she'd discovered, which was either a blessing or a curse depending on the situation.
Right now, it was a blessing.
His fingers traced upward, finding the heat between her thighs. She gasped at the contact, her head falling back. He watched her face with that same intense focus, cataloging every response.
"You are so responsive," he murmured. "So beautiful."
"Alexander"
"Shh. Let me learn you."
His fingers worked slowly, deliberately, finding rhythms and pressures that made her gasp and moan. This was a man who paid attention, who noticed details, who remembered what made her shiver. The 21st century had nothing on Regency focus.
When she came, it was with his name on her lips and his hand pressed firmly against her, holding her through the waves. He watched the entire time, drinking in her pleasure like a man dying of thirst.
Afterward, he held her, both of them trembling.
"I have never—" he started. "No woman has ever—"
"Me neither. Not like that."
He kissed her forehead, her nose, her mouth. "You are my ruin, Rebecca Woodhouse."
"And you're my salvation, Alexander Thornton."
They had three more months.
Three months of stolen moments, hidden kisses, and increasingly creative encounters. The gardener's shed. The back of a carriage. One memorable afternoon in a field that probably traumatised a passing shepherd.
Rebecca taught him things Regency England had never imagined. He taught her that patience could be its own form of pleasure, that anticipation could be more erotic than action, that being truly seen by someone was worth any risk.
But Regency England was small, and secrets had a way of emerging.
Lady Catherine herself cornered Rebecca at a ball. "I know what you're doing with Mr. Thornton."
Rebecca's heart stopped. "I don't know what you mean."
"I mean that you are playing with fire, young lady. He is not like other men. He feels things too deeply. If you break his heart, you will answer to me."
Rebecca stared. "You're... warning me not to hurt him?"
"I am warning you that he is worth more than a modern woman's amusement." Lady Catherine's eyes softened, just slightly. "I knew his mother. She was modern too, for her time. It destroyed her. Don't destroy him."
That night, Rebecca asked Alexander about his mother.
He was silent for a long time. Then: "She loved someone she shouldn't have. My father. He loved her back, but the world... the world had opinions. She died when I was young. Some said of a broken heart."
"I'm not going to break your heart."
"You might. If you leave."
"I'm not leaving."
"You're from somewhere else. I've known since the beginning. The way you speak, the things you know, the utter lack of propriety." He smiled, sad and beautiful. "Someday, you'll go back."
Rebecca thought about her apartment, her job, her phone full of apps. She thought about Alexander's hands, his mouth, the way he looked at her like she was the only person in the world.
"What if I don't want to?"
He kissed her, deep and slow, and she felt his answer in every cell of her body.
The night before her possible return, she'd started feeling strange tugs, like the universe was trying to pull her back—they made love in his bed. His actual bed, in his actual house, with no fear of discovery because he'd dismissed the servants and locked the doors.
It was slow, tender, devastating. Every touch said "remember this." Every kiss said "I love you." When they finally came together, Rebecca felt like she was dissolving, merging with him, becoming something that transcended centuries.
Afterward, she lay in his arms, listening to his heartbeat.
"I don't want to go," she whispered.
"Then stay."
"I don't know if I can."
He held her tighter. "Then I'll come with you."
"You can't. You're a Regency man. You'd last five minutes in my world."
"Then I'll spend those five minutes with you."
Rebecca cried then, silent tears that soaked his chest. He held her through it, steady and warm, and she knew she'd never love anyone else the way she loved him.
Morning came. The tugging was stronger now, insistent. Rebecca could feel the 21st century pulling at her edges.
"Alexander"
"Go." His voice was rough. "If you can stay, stay. If you can't, go. But know that I will love you until I die, and after, if such things are possible."
She kissed him one last time, memorising the feel of his mouth, his hands, his heart.
And then the world went white.
She woke in her own bed, in her own apartment, her phone buzzing with Tinder notifications.
For a week, she couldn't function. She went to work, came home, stared at walls. Her friends asked what was wrong. She couldn't explain.
Then, on a Tuesday, a letter arrived.
Handwritten. Old fashioned paper. A wax seal.
She tore it open.
My dearest Rebecca,
If you are reading this, then I have found a way. There is a woman in the village who claims to know about such things—travel between worlds, she calls it. I paid her everything I had.
I am coming to you. I don't know if it will work. I don't know if I'll survive. But I would rather die trying to reach you than live without you.
Wait for me.
Yours always,
Alexander
Rebecca clutched the letter to her chest, sobbing and laughing at once.
He came three days later, appearing in her apartment in a flash of light that set off her smoke alarm. He was disoriented, pale, wearing clothes that made her neighbours stare.
He was also the most beautiful thing she'd ever seen.
"Rebecca." His voice was hoarse. "I made it."
She launched herself at him, kissing him, holding him, breathing him in.
"Never leave me again," she whispered.
"Never."
He adapted to the 21st century with varying success. Tinder confused him. Smartphones amazed him. The concept of "casual dating" horrified him. But he learned, because he loved her, and because she taught him with the same patience he'd once shown her.
They made love in her modern bed, with its soft sheets and adjustable firmness, and he marvelled at every convenience. "You have no idea," he said, "how much I appreciate not having to worry about servants walking in."
Rebecca laughed. "Different problems now. The neighbours are very nosey."
"I'll buy the building."
"Alexander, you don't have Regency money here."
"I'll earn it. I'm very motivated."
He was. He started a business, because apparently Regency men were good at that. He charmed her friends, scandalised her family, and loved her with an intensity that made her 21st-century exes look like amateurs.
One night, years later, they lay in bed after making love. He traced patterns on her stomach, the same way he had in that library so long ago.
"Do you ever regret it?" she asked. "Leaving your world?"
"Never." He kissed her shoulder. "You are my world now. You were always my world. The rest was just scenery."
She turned to look at him—this impossible man from another century, who'd crossed time for her, who loved her with everything he had.
"I love you, Alexander Thornton."
"I love you, Rebecca Woodhouse. My modern woman. My ruin. My salvation."
They kissed, slow and deep, and Rebecca thought about the strange path that had brought them together. A Tinder date from hell. A lightning strike. A Regency England where she'd found the only man worth crossing centuries for.
Some things, she decided, were worth the wait.
Even if the wait involved time travel.
