by Lynn Kurland
Ambrose MacLeod looked up at him from bright green eyes. “Well, aye, lad. It’s about time, don’t you think?”
Stephen didn’t want to think. He had been having subtle and not-so-subtle hints about his lack of wife and heirs tossed at him for ten years now.
And to be completely honest, he was getting tired of dating, tired of trying to please his enormously discriminating granny who was demanding not only a titled bride but one who came with the cold, hard stuff as well. He had actually spent the previous summer looking at his life and thinking that perhaps it wasn’t as satisfying as it should have been. It had occurred to him, much to his surprise, that he envied his younger brother his lovely wife and beautiful daughter.
And then he’d walked into Sedgwick Castle a pair of months earlier and laid his poor eyes on a woman who had, as they said across the Pond, knocked his socks off.
But he wasn’t going to admit who that had been, not if his life depended on it. Because she was absolutely unsuitable. His grandmother would have had an attack. Even his father might have raised an eyebrow. He needed a girl with a title and money to match, not a mouthy, linen-wearing, feng-shui spouting, tofu-eating—
“She doesn’t eat tofu,” Ambrose said mildly. “Too processed.”
Stephen kept his mouth from falling open only because he had spent a lifetime being polite. “Whom are you talking about, my good man?”
“Mistress Peaches Alexander,” Ambrose said in that mild tone that was all the more infuriating for serenity. “You recently fed her at your father’s table, if memory serves.”
“Which only added to my dislike of her,” Stephen said, hardly able to believe he was talking about anything with a man who looked like he’d just stepped out of a seventeenth-century Scottish portrait. “I find her culinary judgment suspicious at best.”
“There’s more to life than steak.”
“Ha,” Stephen said, because it seemed like the proper thing to say. “First go the prime cuts of Angus beef, then bangers and mash, then steak and kidney pie. Then where are you left?”
“With unclogged arteries?”
“I’ll take my chances, thank you just the same.”
Ambrose rose and came to stand next to him, clasping his hands behind his back. “She’s beautiful, which you cannot deny.”
“She’s a Yank.”
“She has a generous heart.”
“And an unfortunate lack of familiarity with the necessity of pressing one’s clothes.”
Ambrose looked at him in amusement. “You can admit you fancy her, you know.”
“I don’t,” Stephen lied. He wasn’t sure that had come out quite strongly enough, so he made another attempt. “I can hardly bear to be in the same room with her.”
“Why not?”
Why not? Stephen hardly knew where to begin. Because even though he’d known her, if it could be called that based only on things Tess had said, for years yet never managed to encounter her despite her numerous visits to England, he hadn’t expected to look at her, fresh-faced Yank that she was, and fall head over heels for her the moment he’d laid eyes on her. Because after the first hello, his usual smooth, suave conversation had completely deserted him and he’d been left with only an ever-increasing list of stupid things he’d said when he hadn’t meant to.
Because when he was in the same room with her, he found himself turned immediately into a gawky, tongue-tied sixteen-year-old who was so gobsmacked by the goddess within reach that he consistently and thoroughly made an idiot of himself at every turn.
That afternoon had been an aberration in the course of their relationship. He’d managed to sit next to her on the sofa and keep his composure, but that had only been because he’d been concentrating so fully on making certain that everyone in the room thought Peaches was Tess. Once they’d been outside, he’d resumed his alter ego as a complete arse and things had proceeded as they usually did.
“Stephen?”
Stephen looked at Ambrose MacLeod. “Ah,” he said, grasping for the thread of the stalled conversation, “I can’t stand the woman because apart from her dietary delusions, she’s a fixer, and I don’t need to be fixed. She would organize everything from my socks to my files and leave me unable to find either.”
“And that would be so terrible?” Ambrose asked.
Stephen would have answered, but the other ghosts there had ceased with their bellowing of threats and battle cries, put up their swords, and were now quaffing companionable mugs of ale. He steeled himself for the worst.
He wasn’t disappointed.
Fulbert pulled up his chair and sat down with a contented sigh. “Now the true work’s been done for the day, I’ll turn me mind to yer wee problem, young Stephen.”
Stephen decided resuming his seat was the wisest course of action. He managed to fall into it with a decent bit of grace, but that was, he was certain, sheer luck. “Good of you.”
“Now,” Fulbert said, pointing at Stephen with his mug and looking rather stern, “we understand there’s a bit of hesitation about this fancy entertainment upcoming.”
Stephen felt himself frowning. “Entertainment?”
“The ball,” Hugh said wistfully, looking as if he might rather have wished to be going himself. “The fancy dress ball at Kenneworth House.”
Fulbert shot Hugh a look. “’Tis hardly a house. More like a bleedin’ palace, if you ask me, though tatty around the edges. I’m not sure how the young master affords it.”
“He’s always looking out for a rich gel to wed,” Hugh said, stroking his chin thoughtfully with his free hand. “’Tis always the case, isn’t it? A hall is a very hungry mistress.”
“He’ll have enough lassies with sires who have deep pockets to suit him,” Fulbert said with a snort. He turned to Stephen. “But we’re here to see to your future, nevvy.”
“My future,” Stephen said weakly. “There’s nothing to see—”
The ale in Fulbert’s mug splashed over the sides and landed silently on the floor where it disappeared. “Pull out that invitation from that young rogue from Kenneworth.”
“What invitation—”
“The one in your gear!”
Stephen looked to Ambrose for aid, but the laird of the clan MacLeod had only resumed his seat and was watching the goings-on with an amused smile. Stephen sighed and supposed there was no use in arguing further. He reached over for his portfolio. The invitation was there, of course, burning a hole in the leather. He waved it wearily at Fulbert. “This one?”
“Send your acceptance over your wee mobile phone,” Fulbert instructed. “Now, before it grows any later.”
Stephen considered the three sitting across from him. He could say no, of course, because he was quite certain there was nothing they could do to him besides haunt him endlessly. Avoiding that, however, might be enough to induce him to suffer through a long weekend of rich food and deadly dull conversation. He pursed his lips and looked at Ambrose.
“Is there a reason you’ve chosen this event as your means of torturing me?”
Ambrose only smiled.
He turned to Hugh McKinnon. “Surely you’re not interested in healing the breach, as it were, that lies between the Prestons and the de Piagets.”
Hugh rolled his eyes. “Of course not. We’ve more important business here!”
Stephen suspected he knew just what that important business was. He looked reluctantly at Fulbert. “Is there someone there I’m supposed to meet?”
“Ye’ve already met her!” Fulbert exclaimed.
“I’m not sure I follow—”
“Mistress Peaches Alexander!”
Stephen frowned. It was one thing to be bellowed at in his own study by one of his ancestors. It was still that one thing to even be in his study looking at one of his ancestors. It was another thing entirely to be told by that same percher in his family tree that he was supposed to go to a fancy weekend party so he could become involved with a woman he couldn’t bear to be
in the same room with.
For all the reasons he’d gone over before.
“I’m busy,” he said firmly.
“Unbusy yourself,” Fulbert demanded.
“I—”
“Nay!”
“But—”
Fulbert stood and twitched aside his cloak to put his hand on his sword. “I’m prepared to prod ye there with me sword, nevvy.”
Stephen looked at Hugh, who was looking equally fierce. Ambrose MacLeod, however, was just looking at him, smiling slightly. Stephen pursed his lips.
“Nothing to add, my laird?”
Ambrose lifted a shoulder briefly. “You know how things will proceed there, I imagine. It isn’t as if you would leave any woman to David of Kenneworth’s clutches now, is it? Not even, I imagine, a wheatgrass-drinking lass who turns your knees to mush.”
“She doesn’t turn my knees to mush.”
“De Piaget men do not lie,” Fulbert said sternly.
Stephen blew out his breath. It was preferable to throwing up his hands. An entire weekend spent trying to avoid being slandered by David Preston whilst keeping Peaches out of Preston’s clutches. He exchanged another long, meaningful look with his uncle the appropriate number of generations removed, then sighed deeply. He pulled his phone out of his pocket and texted Kenneworth’s social secretary. He set his phone down on the side table, then looked at Fulbert.
“Satisfied?”
“’Tis a start,” Fulbert conceded. “We’ll see how events proceed.”
Stephen could hardly wait.
Because David Preston was a reprobate with no morals or scruples, his sister, Irene, had a list of men she intended to bag like helpless fowl—a list he himself headed, actually, to her brother’s disgust—and Kenneworth House was large enough to accommodate all manner of paranormal participants.
He looked at his ghostly companions. “Tell me you aren’t planning to come along.”
Fulbert sat back down stiffly. “I daresay you won’t know,” he said ominously, “unless ye stray from the path we’ve laid out for ye.”
Stephen sighed.
It was shaping up to be a fabulous weekend.
Chapter 5
Peaches was beginning to think she should have taken Tess up on the offer to use her little runabout to drive north. The weather was awful and growing worse by the moment. That would certainly have been less of an issue if she hadn’t been out in it.
But taking Tess’s car had been more charity than she’d been able to accept. Tess had been serious when she had insisted that Peaches crash at Sedgwick indefinitely because she had given Peaches her own set of keys to everything. That had been followed by the discovery of clothes suitable for a country house party, along with a ball gown with the tag still on. Peaches had tried to protest, but Tess had ignored her. By the time she’d dug through her things at Holly’s only to find a wallet full of cash and a note telling her not to argue with its origin, she had given up fighting her sister.
The trip north had started out well enough. The train ride had been pleasant, so she’d had no complaints there. Her suitcase had wheels, making it easy enough to pull around behind her. Holly had fed her something that morning that had almost made it past the butterflies in her stomach.
Her first indication that Fate might be throwing a monkey wrench into the gears of her perfect fairy-tale weekend was getting off the train and realizing that the station was in the middle of a village that was at least ten miles from Kenneworth House.
She had assumed she would be able to get a taxi, or take a bus, or perhaps even find a chauffeur holding up a card with her name on it at the station. Unfortunately, all those methods of transportation seemed to have been otherwise engaged.
She’d managed to hitch a ride for the first five miles in a little wagon being pulled by a bicycle, a wagon that had apparently most recently transported ripe compost. She’d pulled her suitcase behind the cart that was being pulled behind the bicycle and hoped that no one important would drive by and notice her.
That had been about four miles ago based on her rate of trudging, which she figured left her a mile still before she reached any sort of shelter. It was only the thought of a hot shower and an equally hot fire that had kept her slogging through what had been freezing rain and had now just turned into a bitter chill that reminded her of being in a walk-in freezer. She’d never been in a walk-in freezer, but she had a good imagination and time on her hands, so she had no trouble making the comparison.
She pushed a lock of frozen hair out of her face, ignoring the faint crackling sound, and looked up to find a hint of Kenneworth House in front of her. It was shrouded in a very nasty fog, but the outline was still there, which was almost enough to leave her needing to take a brief seat on her suitcase to recover from her relief. She looked behind her to judge the condition of her suitcase, but saw that it was barely staving off the effects of the elements. It was definitely not up to the task of providing her any meaningful support.
She could only hope the blasted thing was waterproof. If it wasn’t, her clothes were going to need some serious attention once she was in what she could only assume based on the invitation would be an embarrassingly opulent room.
She took another look around, just to see if the sleet that had begun a renewed assault on her was going to be moving past anytime soon, then jumped a little at the sight of lights coming up the road behind her.
Great. It was one thing to sneak in the kitchen door and make a dash for her room where she could lock the door, shower, then pull herself together before she made her grand entrance down the main staircase. It was another thing entirely to be seen in her bedraggled state by a party guest with a potentially very big mouth. She looked around herself quickly to see if there might be somewhere to hide, but unfortunately all that surrounded her were foggy acres of manicured grounds.
Dotted by topiaries, as it happened. Well, there was obviously only one thing to do, and she did it without hesitation. She leaped off the road and well into the verge, plopped her suitcase down flat on the soggy ground, then hopped up on it and struck a pose. It was foggy enough, surely, that she would just look like a toga-draped goddess atop a pedestal, shrouded by mystery and a few bird droppings.
She remained motionless as the car came closer. It wouldn’t have been an exaggeration to say she prayed with great fervor that the owner of that automobile would be so overwhelmed by the sight of Kenneworth House rising up majestically in the distance that he would simply drive on and not be looking over onto the right of the road.
Alas, things were just not going her way.
Her mother would have told her it was karma dealing out just deserts for having traded her hummus and sprouts sandwiches to unsuspecting fifth graders for Twinkies and Ding Dongs. Peaches probably would have told any number of her clients the same thing.
But having karma gunning for her was another thing entirely.
The car slowed to stop. Peaches left her hands outstretched in a goddessy pose in hopes the driver would simply think he or she was seeing things and move right along.
The driver’s side window began a slow, agonizing descent into its allotted space in the door. Peaches fully expected to see David, the Duke of Kenneworth, frowning thoughtfully at a statue none of his ancestors had put there.
Instead, the driver was revealed to be none other than Stephen de Piaget, vexer of innocent life organizers and chief tormenter of poor, helpless Yanks who were currently freezing their statuary off just north of the Yorkshire moors.
He frowned thoughtfully for a moment or two, then rolled his window back up.
Typical.
Peaches could hardly wait to see his taillights, but it occurred to her that if she did, that would mean that he was driving up the way to the manor, which meant he was going to be in the same space with her for the weekend.
Well, at least she wouldn’t have to see him in the immediate future—
Or, maybe she would.
&
nbsp; He had put on his flashers and gotten out of the car. She wanted to warn him that he was going to ruin his lovely dress shoes by tromping around in the slush, but she could only stand there, her arms outstretched and her mouth gaping open, as he walked across the greensward toward her.
And then he looked her straight in the eye.
She credited her breathlessness to the chill. Yes, that was it. It had nothing to do with his amazingly lovely eyes, or that face that had no doubt launched a thousand girlish fantasies, or the fact that he had just gently taken her hands and put her arms down. He took her elbow and helped her down off her suitcase. She went, because she was still coherent enough to realize that she wasn’t doing her wardrobe any favors by standing on it.
She wrapped her arms around herself, because it seemed like the right thing to do. But when Stephen reached for her suitcase, she felt herself thawing enough to speak.
“What are you doing?” she croaked.
He didn’t say anything, as usual. He simply carried her suitcase back to his car.
“But—” She pulled herself together and tromped through the slush after him. “I need that.”
He ignored her, which was irritating in the extreme. She watched him put her suitcase in the boot of his car, then walk around to the passenger side and open the door. He said nothing, he merely gestured for her to get in.
She stopped on the driver’s side of the car. “Look,” she said, realizing that she was looking a nattily dressed gift horse in the mouth, but unable to stop herself, “you de Piaget men have this really annoying habit of bossing people around. My sisters may have to put up with it, but I’m not going to.”
He looked at her evenly. “It is just a ride up the way, Miss Alexander.”
She stuck her chin out. “I don’t need a ride.” Actually it had come out I-I-I d-d-don’t n-n-need a r-r-r-ide, but she didn’t suppose any of the topiaries were taking note of her chattering teeth. Professor de Piaget, however, was no doubt taking note of the same, to use against her at an inopportune moment.