Chapter 3
Jensen
The trouble with having an overactive imagination is that by the time dinner rolls around, I’ve lived several lifetimes, and in all of them, I’ve been held captive in a sprawling Georgian Palladian mansion on the ass end of England.
I’ve been dragged around palatial rooms by my hair and subjected to treatment so heinous that I’m on the verge of preemptively calling the police.
I’d do it too—if I knew the number for emergency services in England. And if my dick wasn’t rock solid.
Receiving no less than two thinly veiled warnings about the man of the house within four minutes of arriving at Beaumont Craven House has done absolutely nothing to set me at ease, and unfortunately, I’m someone who has a very strange reaction to unease.
And to fear. I don’t usually tell people this about me because it’s mortifying as hell, but when I was made, something went a little awry with my wiring.
For no discernible reason, wires got crossed, and fear feels like excitement to me.
Fortunately, all that had nothing to do with my decision to move here. Finding the idea of something hot is worlds away from what I like in reality. I’ve never come close to acting on anything to do with my little quirk, and I never would. Not in a million, billion years.
I uprooted my life and moved to England because the position I’ve been offered is my dream job, and the truth is, I badly needed a change of scenery.
I’ve tried my best to be fine about my ex-boyfriend and best friend, Lucien, mating my brother, but I think most people would find it a hard pill to swallow.
Especially as they have the audacity to be disgustingly, nauseatingly in love.
No. I couldn’t stay in Seattle for another day. I had to get away.
I only wish I’d considered moving to LA or New York, or even Canada, instead of England. I’m pretty sure those would all have been much better options.
At two minutes to seven, I creep down the hall, letting my nose lead the way to the dining room. Fortunately, the rich scent of roast beef is hard to miss and easy to follow.
Like all the rooms I’ve been in so far, the dining room is vast. A long rectangular room with sash windows down one side and columns and austere art on the other.
The table is long too. I couldn’t even guess how many people it seats, but tonight, it’s set for two.
One place setting is at the head of the table, the other to the right of it.
There’s an assortment of cutlery on the table that would put me into a panic if not for the fact that I googled posh table manners for dummies a few minutes before I left my rooms.
I’m not sure I’ll remember the intricacies of which fork to use for each course long-term, but I should be able to retain the information for tonight. I’m clever like that.
The room is eerily quiet. The lights are dimmed, crystal twinkling above me, and there’s no music or sounds other than the odd crackle of a fire and the weak groan of old timber settling in for the night.
I stand near the door for a while, unsure what to do with myself, and after five minutes, I decide to take a seat at the table. Not at the head of the table, obviously. I’m not a fucking idiot.
I place my napkin in my lap, smooth it out, adjust my posture, and wait.
After a few minutes, I realize there’s a buffet with a hot tray at the end of the room, and Mrs. Thompson said she leaves at five, so it’s likely the lord, or whatever you’d call him, and I will be serving ourselves.
It’s strange that the household staff doesn’t live on-site.
I thought they would. There are always chamber maids and butlers knocking around in books set in stately homes.
Mrs. Thompson must be right about the owner being a loner.
To be ready to serve myself when he arrives, I fold my napkin again and put it back on my side plate.
Minutes tick by slowly, and by the time the clock in the next room chimes to mark the half hour, my nerves have given way to irritation.
I’m fucking starving, and dinner was supposed to be at seven.
I haven’t eaten since this morning, and my stomach is seconds away from eating itself.
Lord or no lord, I don’t appreciate being kept waiting like this.
After another ten minutes, my mood has unraveled to the point I’m no longer the best version of myself. I stomp over to the buffet and help myself to dinner. I skip the soufflé and go hard on the beef and vegetables.
It’s one of the tastiest meals I’ve had in my life, but I don’t enjoy it. I can’t. Every time I take a bite, I think I hear something and am forced to gulp the food down so I don’t find myself greeting this lord-man with a mouthful of food.
By the time I’ve cleared my plate, I’ve lost my sense of humor completely.
Though I’m pretty sure it’s frowned upon not to eat dessert at the table in this neck of the woods, I don’t give a shit about posh manners at this point.
I’m taking a nice big helping of the bread-and-butter pudding to my rooms, and I’m eating it there, and there isn’t a goddamn thing anyone can do about it.
I’m halfway to my rooms when I hear it. A distinctive clunk of boots on a wooden floor. I stand where I am, quiet as a mouse, not moving for several seconds. Then curiosity pokes my head around the doorway.
I see the shadowy outline of a man’s back. A large man. Tall with broad shoulders and a weathered gait. His boots are heavy as they hit the stairs. He doesn’t turn to greet me, though he must scent my presence.
An asshole, clearly.
But thankfully, an asshole who doesn’t seem to have any interest in dragging me around by the hair.