Daddy Shifter's Fake Fiance (Stonybrooke Shifters)

by Leela Ash

  Folding his hands behind him and whistling happily, he casually went on his way. Nobody knew what would happen next.

  THE END

  Into The Duke’s Arms

  Katie Maddox

  Copyright ©2016 by Katie Maddox. All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic of mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Chapter One

  Florida, 2016

  “If I see one more piece of friggin’ lace, I am simply going to hurl. And hurl good.”

  Standing at the center of a lavish Victorian style sitting room, Jasmin Lawrence did have to take a moment and admire her surroundings; her bespectacled gaze perusing the room’s shining wallpaper of scarlet brocade, plush ivory carpeting, and central tables doused in reams of pure white lace and topped by a lavish setting of floral print china. Overseen by the glow of brass chandeliers and the spectacle of a hand painted mural that depicted angels in flight across a gem blue sky, the room did boast a lovely, resplendent décor was meant to promote a certain air of serenity and grace.

  At this moment, however, Jasmin felt about as graceful and serene as….

  Well, something that’s not very graceful or serene at all, she mused in silence with a sigh, rolling her eyes heavenward. I am in no mood to be witty or clever. I just want to clear out of here and grab a Big Mac.

  At this point, however, the only edibles in her future took the form of those Victorian era delicacies that she would not be eating herself, but instead, would be serving to patrons at Chez Victoria, the elegant Florida area tea room where she had sought gainful employment for the past year.

  Each day, she pushed a silver cast food cart that came complete with piping hot scones topped by clotted cream and jam, finger sandwiches, decorative iced fancy cakes, and, of course, tea.

  Lots and lots of tea.

  Didn’t those pesky Victorians ever drink anything else? she queried silently, continuing her tortured but nonetheless cathartic internal monologue before adding, as she winced in acute discomfort, And didn’t they ever lower themselves to the wearing of clothes that were remotely—I don’t know—wearable? Or at least comfortable?

  Again, she did have to admit that her work uniform—a true to life, cream colored reproduction of a classic Victorian gown—absolutely stunned with its fitted, lace-bordered floral print bodice with a matching flowing skirt and puffed, lace-lined sleeves. The soft cotton gown served to flatter and accentuate her rubenesque curves. And when she adorned her long mane of lustrous dark hair with a smooth floral print ribbon, she did indeed feel every inch a prim and proper Victorian lady.

  Cha! Got them fooled! She smirked now, rolling her eyes heavenward. I full well realize that this gown is infinitely preferable to my last work uniform, worn during my college days while toiling away as a head bun dresser at Cal’s Coney Heaven. Sorry, but it seems rather odd to wear a polyester Coney dog costume while one actually serves Coney dogs to perplexed looking customers. It seems almost fatalistic, to a point.

  Yet, no more fatalistic, she presumed, than the everyday wearing of hoop skirts, pantaloons, not to mention those ancient mummification devices known as corsets.

  Sheesh, no wonder those ladies were always ‘swooning,’ she reasoned as she felt her rib cage protract. Again. Who can breathe and function worth a darn while wearing a blasted corset?

  As she continued to use her tortured inner thoughts as a surefire distraction from the painful—or, at the very least, irritable—truth of her everyday life, Jasmin struggled to remember the time when she loved and lost herself in Victorian lore; those blissful teen-aged years when she lost herself in the novels of Jane Austen, also in the numerous filmed adaptations of her timeless books.

  I was bound and determined to marry Mr. Darcy, totally ignoring the three major obstacles standing in our way, she recalled now. Number one: Mr. Darcy is a total and complete fictional character, no joke. Number two: If he was not indeed a total and complete fictional character, he would be long dead by now. Number three: Mr. Darcy is already married. And Elizabeth Bennet is just tough enough to kick my heiny—though, I am certain that, with her velvet tongue, she would come up with a far more proper term for my defeated posterior than ‘heiny’.

  It was, in fact, her great love for Victorian literature that had inspired her to pursue a degree in English literature at Clearview State University, the premiere—okay, so the only—collegiate institution located in her Florida hometown.

  After working her way through school via a food service job, she graduated cum laude and immediately, scored a job—in food service.

  So now I know the true and full meaning of the term ‘literary irony’, she mused, heaving a deep sigh as she wheeled her cart, with sluggish slippered steps, between endless rows of lace afflicted tables. Now instead of asking, ‘Would you like fries with that?’ I ask customers, ‘Would you like clotted cream and chutney with that?’

  Her troubled meditation was disrupted by the sudden entrance of her supervisor; a tall, slender woman with distinguished silver hair and a flowing day dress of pure blue satin, adorned with lace and sleek ruffles.

  Although Jessymyn O’Reilly generally had the tendency to float into a room, she, on this day, seemed to trudge a bit as she dragged a large and rather unwieldy portrait into the main dining room of Chez Victoria.

  “Can I help you with that, Jessymyn?” Jasmin queried, rushing forward to grab up the right edge of the brass bordered frame that enclosed the mysterious portrait; righting the painting as she did to take a closer look at its surface.

  She froze then, and gaped outright, as she beheld the image of the most beautiful man she ever had seen.

  His tall muscular frame was dressed resplendent, in a long jacket of azure jacquard, a white satin shirt with a stately high collar, and tight fitting taupe pantaloons adorned with brass buttons. The subject of this portrait boasted a chiseled face featuring carved cheekbones, a cleft chin, and eyes that shone as bright and azure as the image of the bluest sky.

  This face came framed with a shoulder length mane of thick ebony hair that fell free across muscled shoulders, and came adorned with a soft, subtle upturn of his full moist lips.

  “Who’s the beb?” she asked Jessymyn, all the while never tearing her gaze from the captivating man captured in the frames of the ebullient oil painting.

  Jessymyn let loose with an undignified snort, rolling her eyes heavenward as she considered her most unique turn of phrase.

  “The beb, for your information, is Lord Nathaniel Barrett; the man who originally made his home in this very building—or, at the very least, a reasonable facsimile,” she informed her employee. Adding with a proud smile, “A local historian is writing a book about this area and he interviewed the lovely elderly couple that owns this fine establishment. And, as it turns out, the structure of this tea room is based on the floor plan of a manor house they visited while on a trip to London. They had seen the home of a stately nobleman named Nathaniel Barrett, a widower who lived the gist of his days alone and miserable in his big old house. They thought that it would be a fitting tribute to build a house, much like his, then fill it with laughter, good food, and lots of company for his lonely spirit.”

  I’d be more than pleased to provide him tons of company for his lonely spirit, Jasmin mused in silence, saying aloud, “Well that sounds like a really nice story, Jessymyn; one that we will have to share with our customers. In the meantime, let me help you hang that portrait—maybe right over the fireplace, where everyone can see it? Me, especially?”

  Soon, Jasmin found herself back at work on the floor at Chez Victoria, rushing from table to table as an endless line of customers made demands on her services.

  “Could we have more tea over here?”

  “Could we have more scones over here?”

&nbs
p; “Could we have more raspberry jam over here?”

  Could I have a life over here? Jasmin felt like barking in kind return—especially at the man who apparently considered it his mission in life to get just a little bit more of that blasted raspberry jam.

  “Coming, Sir.” She smiled through gritted teeth at the balding old man who visited the tearoom at least once a week; and always on the days that she was on shift. Lucky her. And to make things worse, today, he seemed unwilling to await her apparently less than timely arrival at the side of his table.

  “I’m a goin’ to that front counter myself and get my own raspberry jam,” he told his rather depressed looking wife, who looked as though she would rather be anywhere else, with anyone else, at this point in time.

  Swinging his feet out from under his table, he stuck his leg out in front of Jasmin’s food cart, tripping up the cart’s motion and sending several pieces of priceless floral print china flying forward off the crystalline tray that lined its top.

  The server’s eyes flew wide as she lunged forward in an impulsive attempt to catch the flying flatware; her feet leaving the floor as her body soared like a rocket across the surface of the cart.

  The rocket crashed unceremonious seconds later, as Jasmin’s form flattened atop the cart; her head falling forward to hit the hard brass handle that lined its northern border.

  “Fab-ulous,” she muttered, feeling her eyes cross in her head as her entire world went black.

  Chapter Two

  She was pretty passing sure that she was dead. Dead as a doornail, in point of fact.

  And, for that matter, she was loving every minute of it.

  Her body relaxed in the soft cushion provided on the surface of a plush luxurious carpet; her senses bathed in a veil of silence that soothed and coddled her addled psyche.

  For once, she reasoned, she wasn’t straining her feet and stressing her knees in an endless effort to serve her customers at Chez Victoria. She wasn’t trying to fill an insistent and compelling need for more raspberry jam.

  Now she could simply bask, full and free, in an air of peaceful tranquility; laying blissfully motionless as her tired limbs relaxed and luxuriated.

  Things got even better, she mused, when she finally did open her eyes; witnessing firsthand what just had to be the vision of an angel.

  Aside from being strikingly beautiful, the man before her seemed somehow familiar to her wide, dazed eyes. Immediately, she recognized the tall, muscular frame dressed in the long jacket of azure jacquard, a white satin shirt with a stately high collar, and oh so delightfully tight taupe pantaloons adorned with brass buttons. She also recalled the chiseled face framed by the glorious mane of long, thick ebony hair and featuring carved cheekbones, a cleft chin, and the biggest blue eyes she ever did see.

  “It’s the dude in the portrait,” she mused aloud, adding as she reached a curious hand forward, “Only I wasn’t aware that the photo existed in a three dimensional version.”

  Her eyes flew wider still, moments later, as her wandering fingers made startling contact with the dark silken locks of a head of hair that seemed all too real in texture.

  “What the…” she squeaked out, her words echoed by a deep sonorous voice that resounded hard from the bronzed throat of the gentleman before her.

  “For your information, milady, I’m a duke—not a dude,” the man informed her, folding his arms strong and firm before him. “And nobody touches the hair.”

  Bolting upright on the floor, Jasmin inspected her surroundings, which seemed eerily familiar; recognizing, immediately, the splendorous interior of the Chez Victoria tea room. She nodded in recognition as she spotted the room’s shining wallpaper of scarlet brocade, and plush ivory carpeting; also noting the glow of brass chandeliers and the spectacle of a hand-painted mural that depicted angels in flight across a gem blue sky.

  Yet, in place of the bank of tables that usually came filled with customers waiting to be served, was a long, lace-covered table; topped as it was by a lustrous setting of polished rose print china.

  Finally, her confused gaze returned to the man who met her in turn with a quizzical look; one that seemed to question her presence in this space, if not her very sanity.

  “Not to be unchivalrous, Miss,” he said finally, adding as he inclined his head in her direction, “but may I ask just what in the blazes you’re doing in my home?”

  Standing to her feet, with no small degree of effort, Jasmin hoisted her chin upward as she stared her questioner straight in the eyes.

  “May I ask what in the blazes you’re doing in this century?” she returned, making a broad gesture between them. “You’re supposed to be a Victorian lord, one who walked this earth centuries ago. Aren’t you supposed to be—I don’t know—dead or something?”

  In lieu of making a verbal reply, the man before her shook his head in a show of blatant confusion, clearly unsure as to how to address the question posed by the evident lunatic who stood in his dining room.

  For a full moment, the two just stood there staring at one another as both seemed to struggle to find the right words to address this unbelievable and generally preposterous situation.

  “If Webster’s dictionary ever needs a historically preserved etching to accompany their definition of the word ‘awkward,’” she mused, “then a rendering of this here scene would pretty much suffice.”

  Chapter Three

  Moments later, Jasmin reclined in the lavender cushions of a chair bordering the mysterious long table that now adorned the center of the dining room; sipping hot cinnamon tea from a rose print tea cup.

  For once, she reasoned, it was nice to enact the role of the served as opposed to the server. Especially when her server just happened to be so unforgivably hawt that he really should be illegal.

  Immediately deciding that his unexpected guest had been most literally knocked silly by her jolting fall, the man who introduced himself as Lord Nathaniel Barrett encouraged the woman—who introduced herself as Jasmin Lawrence—to make herself comfortable in his dining room; pouring her a cup of tea as he encouraged her to share her story.

  “How is it that you think you got here, Miss?” he asked her, eyebrows arched in a show of keen curiosity as he took a seat beside her at the table.

  Jasmin shrugged.

  “The last thing I knew I was just minding my own business, pouring tea and serving scones right here at Chez Victoria, the premiere—well okay, the only—tearoom in Clearview, Florida,” she informed him, adding as she rolled her eyes heavenward, “The grouchy old guy in the Hawaiian shirt, who is always asking for raspberry jam, was in fine form, demanding more of that ever precious, seemingly irreplaceable condiment. Then he decided he could wait no more and invaded my aisle; basically tripping up my food cart and myself in the process. I hit the cart hard and felt myself blacking out, slowly but surely.” She paused here, making a broad gesture around her. “And apparently, during the time that I was ‘out’, so to speak, management got rid of all the customers and elected to remodel.”

  Nathaniel looked at her for a long moment, his azure eyes narrowing in a show of confusion as he considered her words.

  “Yes, well, I have no earthly wish to contradict a lady,” he said finally, adding with a shrug, “I must point out, however, that this is my home—not a house that belongs to a lady named Victoria. Who is she, anyway? And while your adorable accent and turn of phrase would indicate that you are indeed from the States, you and I happen to be having this conversation in London—not Florida.”

  Jasmin had heard enough.

  “I’m sorry, but this is ridiculous,” she insisted, setting aside her tea cup and jumping to her feet as she raced, headfirst, for the expansive bay window that fronted the dining room. “Be prepared to see a whole passel of palm trees, Dude, because your jig is up.”

  With these words, she ripped open the gold jacquard curtains that lined and covered the expansive bay window, gasping outright as she revealed a vast emerald g
reen meadow lined with towering stately oak trees that stood tall and proud above luxurious growths of scarlet red roses and lavender lilies; florals that both succored and confused her addled senses.

  The greyish hue of the overhead sky cast the overall scene in something of a somber prism; one that did not seem indicative of the lush, glamorous Florida landscape to which Jasmin felt well accustomed. “Where is the parking lot and the oversized, overly ornate sign that reads ‘Chez Victoria?’” she gaped, more to herself than to her watching host. “And while we’re at it, where is the flippin’ sun?”

  Nathaniel chuckled.

  “Well sadly, Love, we see the sun in London about as often as you see the snow,” he informed her.

  Jasmin nodded.

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” she decided finally, declaring with a firm nod and in a matter of fact tone, “I just went off like the crazy gal I am and travelled through time.”

  Lord Nathaniel Barrett stood as a man of great intellect and certainty. And on this day, he knew one fact to be absolutely true, without as much as a shadow of a doubt.

  The woman before him was completely and totally insane. Madder than the proverbial mad hatter, as a matter of fact.

  And never had he ever met anyone so out and out adorable.

  Although not a classic beauty, the robust lady before him sported a winning smile and a fine flowing mane of dark curly hair; not to mention, sparkling blue eyes that peeked up at him through the prism of clear glass spectacles.

  Far more important, in his mind, was the laughter and animation that she brought to his home; a house left quiet and sterile in the wake of what he feared would be an irreplaceable loss.

  Two years ago, his dear wife Eugenia had been claimed by the fever; ripped from the arms of her grieving young husband, who, in the wake of her death, had closed himself off in the lonesome confines of the house he’d once called a home.