Chapter Two #2
“She’s home for the first time since she was six,” he spat.
Six?
Did Maxine of this world get sick at six?
Maxine of this world.
God, my mom was having to take care of another me, one who
was terrified, confused and not well.
But she looked exactly like me.
And Mom had to do this in a prison cell.
I noticed that he realized he’d said too much, his face
closed down, and he reminded me coolly, “You handle this meeting with aplomb,
they get mattresses and pillows, more blankets and an extra meal.”
I gritted my teeth.
And then there was that.
I was informed they got breakfast “gruel” (whatever that
was, but it didn’t sound nice) and bread and broth for dinner. Plus water.
That was it.
And their blankets were scratchy wool, hopefully warm, but
thin.
And their cots were just cots, no padding, nothing.
“You handle this weekend with aplomb, keep the
betrothal intact, and we begin preparations for your wedding, they will be
moved to a small cottage I own. There, they will stay until you finish your
part of the deal. They will remain under guard, of course, but they will have
more room, far more amenities and will be treated as my guests.”
His daughter, treated as his guest.
He was repugnant. Totally a bigger dick than my dad.
The carriage made a turn and shuddered to a halt.
“Are we agreed?” he pressed.
“I’m here, aren’t I?”
“You have no choice but to be here. Thus, I’ll hear
you say it,” he demanded.
“You gotta let me do this my way,”
I returned.
His brows shot together in alarm. “Pardon?”
“I know you probably don’t get this concept, but I love my
mother more than my own life. And I have a heart, so I don’t know your girl, I
just know she needs to be somewhere not where she is now. If, for the next
however long this takes, it’s a cottage instead of a prison cell, with beds and
good food and room to move, I’ll take it. In other words, I’m not going to fuck
this up.”
He shot forward and snapped, “You’re Lady Dawes, Countess of
Derryman. You don’t speak in that manner.”
“Fuck you, Dad, and chill out. I got this.”
And on that, before he could annoy me any further, and so I
could get this show on the road and out of close proximity to him, I threw open
the door, rose from my seat, put out my (cute, I had to admit, in a bright and
happy steampunk kind of way) baby-blue, kitten-heeled, buttons-at-the-side boot
and stepped on the step that the footman who was there had folded down.
I looked toward the pink house…
And nearly fell flat on my face.
The footman caught my hand and I somehow made it down the
steps.
There was an attractive, tall, straight,
still-broad-shouldered, white-haired, older man making his way to the carriage.
But behind him, leaning against a column by the front door,
the drooping wisteria nearly mingling with his thick dark hair…
Holy crap.
Did they make men that beautiful?
Oh my God.
Pleasetellmethat’stheMarquessofwherever,
pleasetellmethat’stheMarquessofwherever, pleasetellme…
My mental chant was interrupted when my gloved hand was
taken and I heard in a smooth, manly voice that had a thoroughly astonished
tone, “Maxine, my goodness, my dear, you look…very well.”
I tipped my gaze up at the older hot guy, and since I’d
totally forgotten where I was, I just stared at him blankly.
His expression grew tender, his hand around mine tightened,
and he said gently, and also sadly, “Oh, my dear.”
Shit.
Right!
I had to do this.
Starting now.
“Your grace,” I replied, kept hold of his hand, but fell
into a curtsy, dropping my head and fortunately covering my face with my
ginormous hat so I could have a second to think.
Okay, that guy at the house was probably his son.
Which meant that was my fiancé.
Well, kind of, but not really.
But that was the guy I was supposed to make fall in love
with me.
Then I was supposed to have sex with him.
Lots and lots of it (I just added that part, but didn’t you
have to have lots of sex to get up the duff?).
Right, well…
Suddenly…
I could so totally do this.
(Not having the baby part, but I could kill time while I
figured out where Mom and the other me were, rescue them and find some way to
get us home, all while banging that…amazing…man—new item on my to-do
list: figure out birth control in this world.)
His father’s fingers squeezed mine, and I straightened,
looking again to him.
“It’s lovely to see you,” I told him.
“It’s…lovely…to see you…too,” he pushed out weirdly, staring
intently at me.
“Dalton, my good man!” Dad-not-Dad greeted jovially, pushing
close to our sides. “Isn’t she a vision? Just a vision.”
I was only beginning to feel out my role, but I flubbed it
right off the bat.
It was bound to happen.
And it happened right then.
I rolled my eyes.
The duke started.
I jerked and tried to pull my hand out of his, while I
reminded myself to get it together.
I didn’t succeed in pulling my hand out of his because he
held fast.
I focused on him.
“You’re well then, my lady?” he asked in a strangely
searching manner.
“Peachy,” I replied. “I’m out of that infernal carriage. I
have company that is not my often quite irritating father.”
Dad-not-Dad grunted, being the kind of man who could load
that small sound with surprise, offense and disapproval.
Even so, I kept going.
“The sun is shining. This house is ridiculously perfect. I
assume you have food, and intend to feed me, which I will welcome with heart
and soul as I’m starved. And your son is remarkably ugly, but I fear I have no
choice but to accept him.”
The duke blinked at me.
I got concerned I’d taken it too far.
This was, of course, a whole parallel universe where there
were no cell phones, cars, DoorDash or Ted Lasso.
I kicked butt at a meet the parents at home.
But I’d never met a duke, even in my world.
He busted out laughing.
Okay.
Shoo!
I hadn’t lost my touch.
Still chuckling, he finally greeted Dad-not-Dad with a
dismissive, “Derryman,” then tucked my hand in the crook of his elbow as he
started guiding me toward the house, stating, “We had such grave concerns,
seeing as he turned out so unsightly. I must tell you how relieved I am you
have a generous heart.”
“So generous, the birds sing directly to me, and the mice
are my friends,” I replied flippantly.
His brows drew together, humor remaining on his face, when
he returned in all seriousness, “Of course they are.”
Um.
What?
He looked where he was guiding me and called, “Loren, son,
are you going to come greet your future bride?”
Loren, by the by, had not moved a muscle. Not one of the
many, seemingly magnificently defined, astoundingly attractive ones that made
up his big, tall, broad-shouldered, lean-hipped, fabulous body.
He was still leaning against the column wearing light beige
breeches (that left nothing to the imagination with those beefy thighs, or the
delectable bulge between them), dark brown boots, a white shirt with billowy
sleeves contained by a chocolate brocade, low-dipping vest (wrong, I needed to
remember, they called them waistcoats).
No neckcloth, so I could see his tan, corded throat, and it
made my mouth water.
I’d been in that world three weeks. It all seemed like a
sick joke in the beginning (and still did), including the clothes.
But although I would perhaps commit murder to see this guy
in jeans, I was suddenly getting the clothes.
He had his arms crossed on his wide chest, his boots crossed
at the ankles, and his lazy brown eyes with their lush lashes trained on me.
We stopped at the foot of the four steps that led to the
front door.
A sudden wind swept through, taking wisteria petals with it,
and they floated with the glitter in the air between us.
I’d already fallen in lust, but being that close to him, for
the first time thinking this was a different kind of Disney, the adult kind,
but it wasn’t from hell in the slightest, I fell a whole lot deeper.
Loren’s eyes moved down my length and then up, without
showing even a smidgeon of real interest, and it was then I became
uncomfortably mindful of the fact that I was on display.
A ware.
He was a dukeling.
Royal.
And in this moment, he could take me.
Or pass.
“She’ll do,” he murmured.
My lips parted in shock.
They did this not only at his words.
They stayed this way when he turned and strolled into the
house, disappearing in the shadows, not uttering another sound.