Chapter 27
Chapter
Twenty-Seven
LAUREN
H e fills the doorframe, his riding gear hugging his body like it was tailored for sin.
My breath catches, and for a split second, I’m tempted to rub my eyes, to check that he’s not a mirage conjured by too many pages of lords and moonlight trysts.
But no, he’s real—too real—wind-tossed hair tumbling over his forehead, his eyes under the porch light locking onto mine with that unnerving intensity.
What’s he doing here? Surprise doesn’t cover it.
I’m stunned. I wish I could call on my usual sharpness to rise like a shield, ready to snap at him, to keep him at arm’s length, but things have changed since yesterday.
The emergency plumber, the way he stepped in, calm and sure, saving my cottage from ruin.
My hostility has faltered, softening into something warmer, and I smile, genuine despite myself.
“Hello,” I say, my voice tinged with gratitude I can’t hide. “Is something wrong?” I glance past him, scanning the dark yard, half-expecting a problem to be found behind him.
He shakes his head, but his gaze doesn’t waver. It is steady in a way that makes my skin prickle. “Just checking in,” he says, voice low, like we’re sharing a secret. “The plumbing—is it all fixed? Everything okay?”
“Yeah,” I say, nodding, my fingers tugging at the hem of my tank top, suddenly aware of how little I’m wearing. “All good. The plumber came back today and finished it up. And it was really affordable, too. Prices in England are so cheap. Shockingly so.”
I linger on that, watching him, testing.
The price was too low—pipes that old, a job that big, should’ve cost a fortune.
I’d nearly argued, but Harry was already packing up, insistent, and I’d let it go.
Now, I’m sure Hugh’s behind it, and I want him to admit it, to crack that composed mask.
But he doesn’t. His face stays smooth, unreadable.
Maybe I was wrong. Prices in these parts of the world are really that cheap.
“Good,” he says simply, leaning a fraction closer, his shoulder brushing the doorframe. “I just wanted to make sure.”
My suspicions unanswered, and thrown by his concern, I can only nod. His eyes flick past me, catching sight of the lamp in the living room. “I saw you reading. I didn’t mean to pry, it’s just that we are neighbors. You’re winding down for the night?”
“Yeah,” I say, too quickly, my words tumbling out before I can stop them. “I did a ton in the kitchen today—ripping out the cabinets, sanding. Anyway, yeah, I’m just… trying to relax.” I’m rambling. My voice is high-pitched and freaking betraying me, and I hate it.
Why am I so nervous? Is it his calm? The way he’s watching me like he sees every flicker of my thoughts?
Whatever it is, it’s working. It makes my pulse race like crazy, and I’m pissed at myself for letting it.
I take a slow, steadying breath and try to match his ease.
Then I remember the lamp, its light spilling over us, impossible to ignore.
I saw his eye flick towards it, so he’s definitely seen it. I seize the chance to shift the ground.
“When are you sending your staff to pick the lamp up?” I ask, tilting my chin toward the living room.
He leans in slightly, peering past me, and my stomach flips at how close he is, his scent—leather, earth, him—curling around me. “It sure does look beautiful in there,” he says, his voice warm, ignoring my question’s edge. “It really suits the room.”
“It’s too much,” I counter firmly, though my resolve is wavering under his gaze. “It’s too expensive to keep.”
“Well,” he says. “How about we call it a welcome present?” he says, a glint in his eyes. “From your new neighbor.”
I laugh, the sound slipping out, light and unguarded. “Most neighbors bring cookies. Muffins, maybe.”
“Not many neighbors have much taste,” he says, and it’s not a boast—just a fact, delivered with blunt honesty I’m starting to recognize.
It catches me off guard, not arrogant but daring, and for the first time, his directness doesn’t bristle, but charms. What is life if not to be a little reckless sometimes, or engage in a thrilling escapade?
I sigh, knowing I’m wading deeper into trouble.
My body feels like it’s heating up, too aware of him standing there, close enough to touch.
“Fine,” I say, conceding, my voice softer and more pliant than I want. “Okay, you’re right. Not most neighbors, no.”
“So you’ll keep it?”
I nod. “Thank you. It’s beautiful”
He nods, satisfied, but doesn’t move, his presence filling the porch, the night pressing in around us. I’m burning up, remembering that kiss, that sudden, searing mistake I swore not to repeat. If he tried now, if he leaned in, I’m not sure I’d stop him, and that terrifies me.
He makes me weak, strips my defenses, but I’ll hate myself if I give in, if I prove Cecilia right—another woman falling for the womanizer, another conquest for the 12 th Duke of Beauclerk.
The thought cools my blood, and I’m ready to end this little interlude, to shut the door when he speaks, voice deceptively casual.
“Would you like to come out with me one night?” he asks, and my heart stumbles. “There’s a club I like—one of the few worth going to in London. I could take you. Just a few drinks, good music, no pressure.”
The desire to say yes is incredible, but my instinct screams no, a reflex to protect myself. “I’m not really a club person,” I say, stepping back. “Back in Chicago, my friend Sandy used to drag me out, and I hated it.”
He tilts his head, undeterred, a spark of amusement in his eyes. “Because of the places you went. Trust me—this one’s different.”
“I get that,” I say more gently, not wanting to seem ungrateful after everything. “But I’m… at a stage where I’m good with quiet. Being home with my own company, you know?”
“And reading?” he asks, leaning closer, genuinely curious, and I’m thrown. Why is he doing this, turning my doorstep into a conversation center? I glance at the book on my couch, its worn cover catching the lamp’s light, and hesitate.
“Yeah,” I say vaguely.
“What are you reading?”
I freeze, my cheeks warming. It’s one of my grandma’s old novels, tucked among her things—a Harlequin from the ‘70s, all swooning heroines with heaving breasts and dashing lords. Spicy, too, with scenes of a manor owner ravishing a woman under the moonlight, kidnapping plots and breathless passion. I’d laughed when I found it, surprised at her taste, but tonight, reading it, I’d stopped, embarrassed by how it mirrored my own life—Hugh, the manor, this pull I can’t shake.
There’s no way, however, that I’m telling him that.
“It’s just… an old novel,” I say, dodging.
“I found it in my grandmother’s collection of books. ”
“Is it good?” he asks, and I want to groan. He is relentless, determined to draw me out, and I’m trapped.
“It’s… interesting,” I say, clipped, and praying he doesn’t push. He can’t know the details—an English Duke saving his American lover from the clutches of a predator. I’d die if he guessed.
He nods, then shifts, like he’s weighing something. “I’ll let you get back to it,” he says, but adds, “By the way, that club I mentioned— Raye is performing live soon. Do you know her? She sounds incredible when you catch her live.”
My jaw drops and my eyes widen before I can stop them. Raye? My favorite, the one artist I’d kill to see live, her voice raw and electric on every playlist I own. “What?” I blurt, stunned.
He catches on fast, his eyes snapping on my obvious interest. “You like her?”
“Yes, I—she’s my favorite,” I admit, voice betraying my excitement. A sneaky part of me wonders if he knew, if this is another calculated move, but I don’t care. Raye, live? My resolve wavers, temptation clawing at me. “When, exactly?”
“Friday coming,” he says, watching me closely.
I bite my lip, torn. Every warning—Cecilia’s gossip, the whispers about his reputation—screams at me to say no, to stay safe in my little cottage. But Raye… and him, standing here, not pushing, just offering. “Let me think about it,” I say cautiously. “I’ll let you know if I can make it.”
“Sure,” he says easily, then pulls out his phone, his fingers quick. “I think that it’s time we traded numbers, though. So you can update me.”
My stomach twists, reluctance flaring. Giving him my number feels like handing over another piece of myself, another step toward losing control.
He’s outsmarting me, inch by inch, and I know it—everyone’s warned me, his charm, his conquests.
This tug-of-war between wanting to trust him and fearing I’ll fall is exhausting, but I’m stuck.
“Okay,” I find myself agreeing quietly. I rattle off my number and he types it in.
I feel the balance tip, him gaining ground.
“Well, goodnight,” he says, pocketing his phone. “Enjoy your reading.”
“Thanks,” I say, managing a smile. “I will.”
He turns and strides off, his silhouette tall and rugged against the night. I watch, my chest aching as my greedy eyes helplessly drink in his confidence, the easy swagger. He’s gorgeous—too gorgeous—and I’m a fool for noticing.
I shut the door and, leaning against it, scold myself, “Oh my God, Lauren, you’re a mess.
” A light slap to my cheek doesn’t help either for I’m giddy with excitement and tangled in my own weakness.
Irritated, I shuffle back to the couch, grab the book, and open it, the words blurring as my mind stays on him.
It would appear he is dangerous and inescapable.