Chapter 5
Jensen
To kill time before breakfast, I give myself a tour of the grounds.
Showing me around seems to have slipped Mrs. Thompson’s mind, but I don’t mind.
In a way, it’s nice to explore on my own.
This way, I have time to indulge in a nice little daydream about discovering a boarded-up secret garden and bringing it back to life despite not knowing a thing about gardening and generally not enjoying activities that involve getting my hands dirty.
Fortunately, the not-so-secret gardens I do find are gorgeous enough on their own.
It’s March, so they’re sleepy and wizened.
So quiet, it’s almost eerie. Box hedges and conifers are dusted with frost, and as the weak morning sun rises and hits them, the scene transforms around me.
Ice crystals light up and warm pinks and mauves paint glittery streaks on the horizon.
It’s so peaceful, and it reminds me of mornings at Branson’s cabin back home. I like waking early when I’m up there and sitting on the porch. It looks out over the valley, and it’s one of my favorite places to enjoy my first cup of coffee for the day.
Thinking of the cabin gives me a pang of homesickness. An ache between my ribs that has me reaching for my phone. I take a selfie without overthinking it and send it to Branson and Lucien, along with a text.
Jetlagged but alive.
Though I’d love it if they worried about me, I don’t want to give them the satisfaction of thinking I made a mistake coming here. I send a few more messages to ensure that doesn’t happen.
Everything’s perfect here. So glad I came. Definitely not a mistake.
All very noble and fancy, had quail for dinner last night.
Since they both know me better than most people, I know they’ll worry if I don’t have any complaints.
Boss is a bit of a douche.
Harmless, but still.
I silence my notifications and put my phone in my pocket, so I’m not tempted to compulsively check it and get upset about how long it takes them to respond, and keep walking.
I round a bend, the garden gives way to a paddock, and I come across an impressive stable block.
The red brick and stonework match the house, but this building has white stable doors and smells strongly of horse.
It’s not my favorite smell, though there is something comforting about it this morning. I follow it around to the back of the building, and stop in my tracks.
It appears Lord Augustus is an early riser as well. He’s been up for hours, by the look of him. He’s completed his ride and is hosing down a very large black stallion. Or gelding. I’m not entirely sure how one tells a stallion from a gelding.
All I am sure of is that the horse is a male. I’m positive of that.
Lord Augustus is wearing khaki jodhpurs and a cream linen shirt that’s unbuttoned to his sternum. It’s cold to be dressed so lightly. He must run hot, even for an alpha.
His jodhpurs have mud splattered on one leg, and Jesus, they’re snug. Even from where I’m standing, I can see the seams pulling when he moves. The fabric clings to his thighs, drawing my eye upward to the swell of his ass.
It’s not that I want to look. It’s just that I’m a slave to male beauty, and while this man seems like a bit of an asshole to me, he’s a beautiful asshole.
His dark hair is damp from his ride and sticks to his forehead in thick, separate locks. His lips and cheeks are pink from the morning air, and his eyes look even blacker than they did at the table yesterday morning.
He moves differently out here, his movements less controlled. Less polite. I wouldn’t claim to know anything about the inner workings of his mind, but something about his demeanor makes me think he feels free outdoors and caged when he’s confined by four walls and a ceiling.
It’s probably bullshit. It’s probably my imagination making me see things that aren’t there. Probably a case of me reading too much fiction, more than anything else.
He turns off the faucet, sets down the hose, and roughly sweeps his hair out of his face with the back of his hand.
I know I should go. He hasn’t scented me yet by some miracle, but that’s bound to change soon. Or maybe he has scented me, and he’s ignoring me. Either way, I should head back. I’m quite far from the house, and looking around, I’m suddenly acutely aware that there aren’t any other people around.
Yes. I should definitely head back.
I don’t, though, because something has wound itself around my wrists and ankles. A soft, low sound I feel more than hear. A gentle vibration that makes my jaw unclench.
“Good boy,” says a velvet voice.
I manage to fight the urge to say, “Who, me?”
Just.
Thank fuck for that because he’s talking to the horse.
The second the coast is clear, I scuttle back to the house at top speed.
Breakfast this morning is easily as torturous as it was yesterday. Possibly more so. I’ve been served delicious eggs Benedict on an English muffin, but unfortunately, it sticks in my throat when I attempt to swallow it.
The difficult man to my right seems to be in a mood this morning. There’s a crease between his brows and a heaviness about his eyelids that I can’t help feeling is about me. As I chew, chew, chew and struggle to swallow my food, I remind myself of my resolve to say less while I’m in England.
I’m still wholly on board with the plan. It’s just that I’m finding it a little harder to remain on course this morning than I did yesterday.
Lord Augustus eats in silence, handling his cutlery in a way that manages to be both infinitely refined and slightly comical on account of how his hands dwarf his knife and fork. When he’s finished his food, the gray pants, white shirt guy pours him another cup of tea.
“Thank you, Sid,” says Lord Augustus with a small smile that, if I’m not mistaken, might actually reach his eyes.
“Anything else for you, Mr. Lawlor?” asks Sid.
It’s now or never.
I either ask for coffee or I die of unhappiness during the course of my stay here.
“Might I have a cup of coffee?” I ask, bowing primly from the neck and sounding like a fucking idiot.
Sid dashes off to make my coffee, and I’m left grinning inanely at the lord.
Fortunately, he doesn’t seem to be aware that I’m in the room.
The coffee arrives, and I drink it with the most intense gratitude imaginable. I’m so focused on the bitter, heavenly task at hand that I don’t notice that Lord Augustus’s attention has shifted until I set my cup down.
A hot, heavy gaze pours over me, spilling down my shoulders and running down my chest. I tense, though I don’t mean to. I don’t move as a pair of dark alpha eyes slowly work their way up my neck, then my face, and finally meet mine.
“Were you warm enough last night?” he asks.
There’s something unexpectedly soft around the corners of his mouth when he speaks, and the smooth timbre in his voice reminds me of what he said to the horse earlier. That, and having woken in the depths of a nest that would put most nests to shame, causes a flush to creep up my neck.
“Oh yes!” I exclaim, taking off at a canter. “I was warm enough, thank you. I was perfectly warm. Mrs. Thompson left some blankets in the cupboard for me, but I didn’t need them, because of…you know, being warm enough.”
I have a sip of water and manage to rein myself in.
I fidget with my napkin and take my time buttering a piece of toast with excessive care, making sure an even layer of butter reaches the corners perfectly. I eat it in much the same way, small, neat bites designed to kill time.
I pass at least ten minutes like this, my anxiety ratcheting up a little more each second from the strain of being alone in the room with an unpleasant, hard-to-read alpha.
When I’ve drained my glass of water, flattened my napkin, and folded it carefully, I sit, hands in my lap, sinking into an excruciating silence.
“Right,” says Lord Augustus when the tension in the room has become a spiky sculpture made of thinly blown glass. “Let’s get the day started, shall we?”
Oh fuck.
He’s been waiting for me to finish eating. Of course he has. Posh table manners and all that.
I’ve kept him waiting for ages. How embarrassing.
I get to my feet and stand very straight. “Apologies,” I say with meaning.
He looks at me again, head tilting this time, and a flicker of something that looks a lot like humor dances in his eyes.
He gives me a nod and sees me out of the dining room.
He opens the door for me, standing to the side to allow me to leave the room first. It’s a mannered gesture from the old days, the Old Ways, that shouldn’t mean anything.
He’s probably been so brainwashed by his upbringing that he doesn’t even notice he’s doing it. He probably treats everyone like this.
I highly doubt it means anything.
Still, it’s the closest I’ve ever been to him, and I can’t tell if it’s my imagination or if I actually feel a ghost of heat in the shape of a large handprint on the small of my back as I walk past him.