In Bed With Lord Byron

slowly pushed up an inch of ivory cloth, planting a kiss in the cup of my palm. It was
the most erotic thing I had ever experienced. He looked up at me and saw me shiver, and smiled and said, ‘I hope, Lady Lyon, we will meet again soon.’
    iii) Courtship
    In the morning, I was woken by a beeping noise. A very familiar beeping noise.
    I stretched. My hands hit something wooden; I yelped as a splinter sliced into my thumb. Suddenly disorientation flooded my mind. Where was my alarm clock? Why had my white walls suddenly been
replaced with dark ones? I sat up. I was surrounded by a sea of covers. Oh God – Tom Moore’s house. I pushed back the covers, swinging my feet on to the floorboards. Then the cold hit
me like daggers. I ought to have remembered that there was no central heating in the nineteenth century; I’d once read somewhere that on cold nights people would wake up to find their
bedcovers patterned with frost.
    I got back into bed and pulled the covers right over my head, burying myself in a warm, safe, white cotton cocoon. Panic gripped my heart in a tight fist. Just what the hell was I doing here?
OK, Tom Moore had been a polite and warm host, offering me the best bedroom with the four-poster bed. But this was crazy. I was meant to be getting up and showering, going down to my local
newsagent, buying a smoothie and checking the
Guardian
for job ads; I was meant to be sorting out my bills and feeding Lyra—
    Oh God! Lyra! She was going to starve, poor thing. I sat up, ignoring the cold. Then I noticed the glow of my mobile phone. I picked it up. I’d got a text message! Well, who would have
thought that texts could transcend time and space? The message was from my mother, asking me what I wanted for Christmas – even though it was months away. For all its absurdity I found it
supremely comforting. Knowing I could keep in touch with the real world made me feel a lot better.
    I lay back, scrolling down through my saved texts. At least three-quarters of them were from Anthony. A wave of longing swept through me and I suddenly missed him so much I felt sick. He
hadn’t been in touch with me since the
Daily Telegraph
guy date; I was now convinced he was well and truly mad at me.
    I decided to text him:
    Emergency situation – had to go away. Plse can you feed Lyra for me? R u ok? xxx
    A minute later my heart leapt as my mobile beeped again.
    Then it screwed into a tight ball of pain when I saw the terse reply:
    OK.
    He was mad at me. I felt tears starting to flow and, hearing a faint knock on the door, hastily wiped my face on the sheets.
    ‘Come in,’ I called, quickly hiding my phone under the covers.
    A maid entered, a frilly white cap perched on her fair curls. She was carrying a breakfast tray.
    The tea looked wonderful. As I sipped at it, I felt a soothing energy and warmth flood my body.
    I was draining the cup when I saw that there was something else on the tray. A small white envelope with
Lady Lucy Lyon
written on it in thick, slanting black-inked letters. I put down my
cup and tore it open.
    Dear Lucy,
    Your company last night was utterly abhorrent. If you would like to reprimand me further on the way that I have mistreated the female sex, I would be grateful if you would join me for an
     evening of pleasure and absinthe. I will send a carriage which will arrive at noon.
    Yours,
    George Byron
    I read it through three times.
I will send a carriage.
No asking, just telling me. So presumptuous. And so bloody keen.
    Gosh,
I thought breathlessly,
I’ve got him.
    I put down the letter, my heart and mind boomeranging back to Anthony again. One part of me wanted to race back to 2005 and try to repair things, but another part just wanted to curl into a
hedgehog ball and hide from my pain, from facing the reality that Anthony and I might never be friends again.
    I decided to take solace in Byron.
    I thought Byron might play games and turn up late, but his carriage arrived on the dot. When we set off, Byron seemed agitated and excited. Outside the scenery tumbled past,
London buildings thinning into countryside.
    ‘Where are we going?’ I asked.
    ‘Switzerland,’ said Byron casually.
    ‘What? I can’t go to Switzerland! I mean, who’s going to feed Lyra? I have to look for a job, and I’ll miss a whole week of
EastEnders
! And I don’t even know
where my time machine is!
’
    In his agitated state, Byron failed to notice my multiple faux pas.
    ‘I’m sick of this country,’