Chapter Three
Scarlett O’Hara
Maxine
Hawkvale
Pinkwick House
The Parallel
I stood, staring out the window at the
gathering clouds, the same, figuratively, forming in my head.
Prior to his most recent betrayal, I hadn’t seen my father
in over a year. Mom hadn’t seen him in a lot longer. Life was good. Healthy.
She was dating that nice Keith. I had a decent job I liked that paid okay, and
I loved our residents at the over-fifties community I managed.
We were steady.
Safe.
Why did we both run to him when he called (or, as it was,
texted)?
Yes, he said it was urgent.
Yes, he said he was terribly ill.
But he was a conman with a charlatan’s heart and a grifter’s
soul, and his gut instinct was always to fend best for himself even if doing so
meant he lay devastation in his wake.
We’d learned that time and again.
When did you stop hoping your father would become a
worthwhile human being?
The answer to that question for me, apparently, was…on his
deathbed.
Except, he hadn’t been on his deathbed.
He’d made another deal with another devil.
And anyway, why would someone text to say they were on their
deathbed?
Then again, why did Ed Dawes do anything?
More importantly, why did I believe Ed Dawes when he did
something?
Thunder rent the air and I jumped.
“That came on quickly,” Dad-not-Dad mumbled from where he
was seated in the duke’s pretty yellow, cream and green sitting room, reading a
paper behind me.
Loren had not shown his face again.
Ansley (he told me to call him Ansley, and not what
Dad-not-Dad ordered me never to fail to call him: your grace, Lord Dalton, or
Lord Copeland) had served us tea with scones and jam and cream (Lord, heavenly,
I ate two, even if Dad-not-Dad stared daggers at me while I did, and the seams
of my tight dress threatened to burst).
Ansley had then said he had a few things to see to, asked us
if we would be all right on our own for half an hour, and when Dad-not-Dad fell
all over himself to say yes (I kinda wanted to be
shown to my room so I could unbutton a few buttons after tea), he left.
In that time, the storm had come in.
And I had found that standing made it easier for my dress to
make room for the scones and cream.
“The carriages are still out there,” I announced.
These would be plural, seeing as Dad-not-Dad’s valet, and my
lady’s maid, Idina, had been in a carriage behind us.
Our trunks had been brought in.
But the horses, who had been dragging those carriages for
three days, were still hooked to them in what was becoming a rather whipping
wind.
“The grooms will be having their own tea,” Dad-not-Dad
muttered.
I turned to him. “The horses need tea too.”
His head came up and his brows knitted. “Horses don’t drink
tea.”
“No, but they’ve been doing a hell of a lot more work than
you, me, or the groomsmen have the last three days. So they should be somewhere
warm, sheltered, with water, oats and maybe a few apples or carrots.”
I was talking out my ass, since I was a city girl and didn’t
know anything about horses, but people were always feeding them apples and
carrots and oats in movies.
“They’ll be seen to,” Dad-not-Dad dismissed.
“A storm is coming, they should be seen to now.”
“They’ll be seen to when they’re seen to, Maxine, it’s not
your issue.”
“It is when I’m standing right here”—I swung an arm to the
windows—“and I can see them.”
“I can assure you, the grooms know the storm is coming, so
if they’re worried about the damned horses, they’ll get the damned horses.
They’re horses! They can handle some rain.”
“After dragging your very healthy behind over what
has to be at least a hundred miles?” I retorted. “I mean, I don’t wish to fat
shame, Dad, but they’ve served us, now it’s our turn.”
His face turned purple.
A throat was cleared at the door.
Loren stood there, again leaning, now against the jamb.
Wonderful.
The papers rustled frantically as Dad-not-Dad hauled himself
out of the fancy yellow settee.
“Loren, my boy, we didn’t have a chance to greet each other
earlier. It’s lovely to see you again.”
Loren studied Dad curiously, like he was a speck of dirt in
this pristine, but very attractive, sitting room, and he had no clue how he
managed to be missed by the maids.
In our very brief acquaintance, Loren had shown some dickish tendencies, but now I was thinking I might like the
guy.
“I’m afraid the tea’s cold,” Dad-not-Dad went on gamely.
“Shall we ring for some more?”
“I don’t drink tea,” Loren declared.
“Really? What do you drink?” Dad-not-Dad asked eagerly.
“Obviously, my darling Maxine will need to know all your preferences.”
I looked to the ceiling and mouthed, Oh my God.
“Maxine!” Dad snapped.
I righted my head and caught Loren now studying me, not like
I was a speck of dirt, but like I was a fascinating specimen, and he didn’t
know what to make of me.
At least the fascinating part was good.
“Yes, of course, my lord, please, I beg of you, share all
your preferences,” I said to him, lifting a hand and placing it on my
chest for added emphasis of how deeply I desired this knowledge.
Loren’s eyes fell to my hand.
They stayed there.
He smirked.
Well, there’s one.
I’d taken off my jacket.
I was baring cleavage.
And he was a tit man.
Thank goodness I had ample in that region.
More thunder, closer, and the darkening room lit with
lightning.
I dropped my hand, turned back to the window and saw the
rain come sluicing down.
This wasn’t an afternoon thunderstorm.
This was a monsoon.
And the horses had their heads ducked, all eight of them on
the two carriages, as the deluge pelted them. The wind was tearing at their
manes and tails. And I could swear to God, I saw one of them shivering.
I whirled on Dad-not-Dad.
“Are you going to call a damned groom?” I demanded.
My not-father dropped all pretense, and his face twisted.
“Watch that mouth, lady,” he snapped.
I dropped my chin into my neck, mouthed, Fuck it,
then stormed toward the door.
Loren still lounged there.
He was lit with another flash of lightning as thunder
rattled the house, and he was hot even with spooky lighting. He was also now
watching me with open interest, but I didn’t take the time to enjoy it or do
anything about it.
I swept past him.
“Maxine! Where are you going?” Dad-not Dad shouted.
I didn’t answer.
But I wasn’t going to ramble around a humongous house
looking for the grooms when the horses were fifty yards away from my person and
I knew where the goddamn stables were.
I had no clue how to drive a carriage, but if Scarlett
O’Hara could drive one, by God, I could too.
I stomped out into the rain, and immediately regretted my
decision, not only considering my updo was instantly ruined and it had taken
Idina a million years to curl and arrange my hair that morning before we left
the inn where we’d spent the night last night (I would never take electricity
for granted again). But because a monsoon even in Disney Come to Life was no
joke.
However, I was rolling, and there was no going back now.
“Maxine!” I heard yelled over the rain and wind.
And it wasn’t Dad-not-Dad.
It was Loren.
I was going to look over my shoulder at him when, instead, I
stopped dead because his fingers wrapped around my upper arm pulled me to a
halt.
“Get in the house,” he ordered.
I blinked up at him through the rain. “I’m taking care of
the horses.”
“Get in the house,” he repeated.
I pulled at my arm. “The horses need to be taken to the
stables.”
He dipped his face right in mine, like, an inch away,
and I didn’t have a chance to process how sexy his lashes were when they were
spiky with wet as he barked, “Get in the godsdamned
house!”
Oh no he didn’t.
I yanked my arm from his grip. “Don’t tell me what to do!”
I then turned, and as fast as my tight skirt would allow me,
I ran toward the carriage.
This was not fast, and I was probably moving like a geisha,
so, unsurprisingly, he caught up with me.
When he did, what he didn’t do was drag me to the house.
He picked me up.
Yes, me and my rather generous ass.
He then pretty much tossed me high into the driver’s seat of
the carriage.
My hip banged against it (no worries, the seat was padded),
and I nearly fell to my knees on the floor.
I did not because Loren was up after me, his arm sliced
around my stomach, he hauled me around and deposited my ass in the seat.
He then sat next to me, nabbed the reins, shouted, “Hee-yah!” while he flicked them, and the horses were so
danged ready to not be in the freezing, driving rain, they bolted
forward.
I nearly rolled ass over head off the back of the seat and
had to grab on to Loren in order not to do that (important aside, his arm felt
like it was made of steel).
Either the grooms were making their way to get the carriages
or folks were battening down the hatches, because there were people doing
things at the stables. When they saw us speeding to them, two of them rushed to
the doors and opened them.
We raced in, and Loren pulled back the reins, yelling,
“Whoa!”
The horses stopped, the carriage creaked ominously behind
us, I nearly went head over ass forward this time, but I didn’t because Loren
grabbed hold of me, then he immediately stood.
He dragged me across the seat until I was sitting where he
had been. He jumped lithely to the ground (and yikes, that was a shocker, the
seat was pretty high up).
He then reached up, caught my waist in his hands and hauled
me down to my feet.
At that point he commenced towing me through the stables,
ordering, “You get that other carriage inside, you disappear. Am I heard?”
“Yes, milord,” someone said.
I wasn’t paying attention.
Because we weren’t leaving the stables.
He was taking me to a room off where all the horses were
(and proof positive this place was scary awesome: the stables didn’t smell like
stables—they smelled like fresh cut hay and summer rain, which someone needed
to make into a candle).
We got to that room.