Chapter 19 #2
She was the research assistant. He was the future Earl of Artane.
She was a Yank. He was, again, the future Earl of Artane.
She loved puttering in a garden, watching things grow, making small improvements to lives and closets.
He was the bloody future Earl of bloody Artane, he wore tweed, and he would spend the rest of his life managing enormous estates and trying not to let his family be bankrupted by excessive taxes.
Besides, when it came right down to it—and she had to tell herself this several times before she could put the appropriate amount of enthusiasm behind the thought—she didn’t really like him all that much.
He was serious and studious and did lots of things she was really bored by such as filling young minds with tradition and history and glorious ideals of chivalry and nobility.
She would be very happy when she had done all the research for him he needed and could get back to having him out of her life.
By the time he had parked his excessively expensive automobile and come around to open her door for her, she was beginning to think she might need a run.
She grabbed her backpack and crawled out of the car, looking for the closest escape route.
She realized she wasn’t going to manage it only because Stephen was in her way.
He still had hold of her door and his hand on the roof of his car, effectively boxing her in.
Or keeping her safe, depending on how one looked at it.
She was suddenly having a hard time catching her breath. “We can’t do this,” she blurted out, because she had to say something.
He looked at her in surprise. “What? Come to Bath?”
She realized she was on the verge of making a colossal ass of herself because she was obviously the only one who was thinking thoughts beyond picking up a few Regency tidbits for him to use in his next paper.
She looked around quickly for something intelligent to say.
“I mean, we can’t go around town today without, ah, some water. To drink. In case we get thirsty.”
He looked at her as if she had lost her mind.
She was beginning to think that might be the case.
He backed up, pulled her out of the way of the door so he could close it, then took her by the hand.
“We’ll find some at our first opportunity. Until then, why don’t we talk about sheepdogs.” He glanced at her. “Or shepherds.”
She blinked. “Why in the world would we want to do that?”
“Humor me.”
She supposed it was better than slugging him. She settled for rolling her eyes. “The only thing I know about sheepdogs and shepherds is that they probably drive the sheep crazy with all their fussing.”
He started up the street, towing her along with him. “Actually, it’s my understanding that they do everything possible to keep their sheep safe.”
“And herded,” she muttered.
“Fussed over,” he said, glancing at her. “There’s a difference.”
“Do you de Piaget men understand the difference?” she asked pointedly.
He stopped and looked at her. If she had been a more fanciful type, she would have thought he was considering pulling her into his arms and kissing her. She wondered if he noticed that she had lifted her hair off the back of her neck with her free hand. Just to get a little draft going, of course.
He brought her hand to his mouth and kissed the back of it. Peaches gaped at him.
“Better shut that,” he advised. “People will think I’m saying appalling things to you.”
“You are.”
“I haven’t said anything yet.”
“You’re looking at me.”
He looked at her a bit more. “Why don’t you reserve judgment for the day,” he said with a small smile, “and we’ll see how I do.”
“With the herding thing?”
“That, too.”
She closed her eyes briefly. “This isn’t going to work.”
“Are you sure?”
She looked at him, into his very lovely gray eyes, and had to take a deep breath. “I’m pretty sure.”
He ran his thumb over the back of her hand. She wasn’t sure he knew he was doing it, but maybe he was trying to soothe them both.
“Why don’t you give me one day,” he said very quietly. “Just one day of allowing me to herd you exactly the way I want to.”
She swallowed, barely. A tall, extremely handsome, profoundly chivalrous man was asking her to give him an entire day to treat her like a fairy-tale princess, and she was kicking up a fuss?
“Okay,” she breathed.
He looked at her closely. “Feel like running?”
“It would be the wisest thing to do,” she said honestly, “but I think my shoes would give me blisters.”
He smiled, that small little smile she was becoming hopelessly addicted to, then pulled her along with him down the street. “Don’t expect me to buy you another pair.”
“Don’t you care about my blisters?” she managed.
“I care very much, which is why I think running would be a very unwise activity for you today. Being fussed over is much less hard on your feet. And given the fact that you almost ran me into the ground yesterday, I’m all for easy on the feet today.”
“You know, Stephen,” she said, “you can be very charming when you want to be.”
He shot her another smile. “I want to be.”
She walked with him for another few minutes, then looked up at him. “Why?”
“Why not?”
She looked at him seriously. “Is that the answer?”
He looked at her with a glance that was definitely better suited to a black leather jacket than a tweed sport coat, then pulled her out of pedestrian traffic.
She wondered if he was going to give her another lecture on sheepdogs, or just a very long list of reasons why hanging out with a Yank was a good change from his trio of debutantes—well, minus the one who had tossed a valuable book into the fire.
But he didn’t.
He took her face in his hands, bent his head, and kissed her.
Peaches was so surprised, her knees buckled. He caught her around the waist, slipped his free hand under her hair, and kissed her again. She clutched his arms because she had to in order to keep herself still on her feet.
He lifted his head and looked at her from stormy gray eyes.
“That’s why.”
“I’m not sure I understand,” she managed.
“Let me herd you for the day, then you tell me if you want further clarification.”
She shivered. “Stephen—”
He kissed her again and did a proper job of it.
Peaches put her arms around his neck because that seemed a very sensible thing to do.
Well, that and in spite of the respectable number of men she had kissed over the course of her life, she had never before kissed one who made her want to hold on and never let go.
She came back to herself only because she heard a very loud complaint right next to her ear.
“Cheeky yobs,” said a weathered voice in disgust. “Kissing out in the open!”
Stephen lifted his head and looked at a gray-haired granny. “I apologize, miss.”
“Missus,” said the woman sharply. “Mrs. Yeats.”
“Mrs. Yeats,” Stephen repeated dutifully. “My most abject apologies, Mrs. Yeats.”
Mrs. Yeats scowled fiercely at him, then continued on her way. Peaches would have gaped at her, but she was too busy trying not to gape at Stephen. He only smiled at her, which finished what was left of her good sense.
“Regency delights?” he asked politely.
“Is that what that was?” she asked.
He laughed and took her hand to lead her off to who knew where. She didn’t suppose she dared ask.
The whole thing was impossible. She was a nobody and he had three given names.
She was a lowly clarifier of intentions; he was heir to the most magnificent castle on the north coast of England.
She was a vegan; he probably had entire cows wrapped and put into his freezer for use at a moment’s notice.
“I think I need a drink,” she said thickly.
“There’s a juice bar across the street.”
“Thank heavens,” she said with feeling. “Let’s hope they have something green.”
“Let’s hope they have something drinkable,” he muttered under his breath.
But he smiled as he said it and walked with her to the light, good citizen that he was, so they could cross the street without jaywalking. He bought her a green drink, had one himself with extra fruit to mask any hint of springlike taste, then burped discreetly on his way out the door.
“I fear for my digestion,” he said honestly.
She feared for her heart, but she didn’t say as much. She simply pulled her sunglasses down and followed him incognito to wherever it was he was taking her.
The day was magical and indeed very hard on her heart.
They walked the streets, took in an exhibit on Jane Austen, nipped into a National Trust property on the Royal Crescent, and avoided the shopping district like the plague.
Peaches was actually quite happy, as the afternoon began to wane, to walk into the most organic-looking pub Stephen could apparently find and have a plate of potatoes and veg.
Stephen joined her, adding only a rather decent-smelling bowl of stew to go along with it.
They were sitting on opposite sides of a table, which apparently gave him ample opportunity to herd her feet between his and keep them there.
“So?” he asked, toying with a cup of tea. “Herding or fussing?”
“Fussing?” she echoed in mock disgust. “You had me working all day memorizing trivia.”
“I fed you,” he reminded her. “Green things.”
She looked at him seriously. “Yes, you did.”
“And?” he asked. “What’s the verdict?”
“The jury says you are a terribly charming man who can’t help but herd,” she said solemnly. “I think it’s in your genes.”
“Eight hundred years’ worth,” he agreed. “It seems to have worked for my relations.”
She shook her head with a smile. “How odd it must be to know several of the sons of the man who built your family home.”
“I’m not sure odd describes it,” he said with a wry smile. “It does tend to put a little pressure on me to see that the place doesn’t fall to the ground under my watch.”