All for You

by Lynn Kurland

  He stared at her for another minute or two in silence, then shrugged and walked around the back of the car. She wanted to ask him bitterly if he was going to pull her suitcase out of his trunk and hand it back to her before he continued on his way, but she didn’t have time before he was shrugging out of what had to have been an obscenely expensive overcoat.

  He draped it around her shoulders, then walked back around the passenger side of his car. He didn’t even glance her way before he simply got in.

  Peaches frowned. She also pulled the coat around her with a gingerness its owner didn’t deserve. It was cashmere, after all.

  The driver’s side door opened, making her jump back. She managed to find the only ankle-deep puddle in the area, apparently, but by landing in it instead of on her backside saved Stephen’s coat and her trousers. She suppressed the urge to swear and bent down to peer into the car.

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  Stephen leaned over and looked up at her. “You don’t want to ride,” he said, “so I thought you might rather drive.”

  Peaches thought she might have more success guiding the space shuttle than his car, but perhaps now was not the time to say as much. His very expensive Mercedes was beckoning to her with all the irresistible charms of a male Siren; she could feel the warmth pouring out of the door from where she stood. She took a step forward, then made a last grasp for the remaining vestiges of reason and good sense.

  “I’ll ruin your seats.”

  “They’re leather. I daresay they were subjected to worse when they were still on the cow.”

  Peaches caught her breath. He had probably made steaks out of the rest of that cow—which she would think about later—but she had to admit he did have a point. She glanced up at the rapidly darkening sky and thought that perhaps she might do well to get out of the weather before she caught her death.

  Her feet made a sucking sound as she pulled them free of the muck, though, which made her rethink her enthusiasm to fall into the Mercedes’s seductive embrace. She put her hand on the door and the edge of the roof for support, then took another look at the immaculate insides of Stephen’s car. They would be forever sullied if she put her muddy, sopping self inside. She leaned over again and looked at him.

  “I could sit on the roof,” she offered.

  “Please, no.”

  “But—”

  “Please, Miss Alexander,” he said, sounding as if he had only one nerve left and she was getting on it, “just get in before we both spend the rest of this damned weekend sneezing.”

  Well, he didn’t sound all that enthusiastic about her fairy-tale-in-the-making, but maybe his invitation hadn’t been as nice as hers, or one of his girlfriends had let him know she wasn’t going to be attending. For all she knew, the fare was going to be strictly vegetarian and Stephen was mourning the future lack of animal fats adorning his plate. What did she know about British nobility apart from her uncanny knowledge of their ranks thanks to Aunt Edna’s eclectic choices in graduation gifts?

  Stephen didn’t sound particularly friendly, but, then again, she was about to give his cow a bath so perhaps she couldn’t expect anything else. She took a deep breath, coughed, then turned and backed down onto the driver’s seat. She looked at her feet still lingering outside the car in her ruined dress shoes. She wasn’t sure what would do less damage, her shoes or her bare feet, but at least her naked toes were less mud-caked. She pulled her feet out of her shoes, winced at the pain, then leaned over and gathered her shoes up into her lap.

  She tried not to drip all over everything, really she did.

  She pulled the door shut and sighed in relief in spite of herself.

  Stephen cleared his throat. “Shall we?”

  Peaches looked at him quickly, but he was only watching her with that same grave expression he always watched her with, as if he just didn’t know what to think of her. That was so different from how Tess always described him that Peaches wondered if he’d had a personality transplant when no one had been looking. Tess always claimed he was wonderful, not at all stuffy, the life of any academic party.

  Peaches couldn’t see it. Maybe he really let loose when discussing hose and tunics, but even during those first few days she’d known him when they’d been looking for Pippa, he’d been polite.

  Gravely polite. As if he were biting his tongue for some reason.

  She supposed the reasons could be many and most of them would have to do with some way she was failing to live up to his very proper, very noble expectations.

  She rubbed her hands over her face, then shook her head. Her hair made a slight crunching sound, which she supposed was the ice breaking up. Well, best to get Stephen up to the door and herself out of his car before she defrosted on it. Then she could bid him a gravely polite adieu and be on her way to her happily ever after while he went off and did his nobility thing with other nobility guys.

  And while he was doing that, she would get on with the rest of her life. Her clothes would dry out, she would thaw out, and she would spend the rest of the weekend living out her most secret fantasy. After all, she had all the ingredients: gorgeous clothes, palatial manor house, handsome duke who had hand-penned a little note tucked inside her invitation expressing his delight over the potential for seeing her. Things were looking up.

  And while things were looking up, she wouldn’t think about the fact that her sister Pippa had decided that the Middle Ages and a certain very handsome lord named Montgomery were more to her taste than the modern-day world with its constant noise, running water, and Wi-Fi connections, or that Tess had married Montgomery’s medieval brother who had found modern-day England more to his taste than the medieval world with its blissful silences, long evenings with nothing to do but spin and weave, and nothing pulling the family apart but a good skirmish now and again.

  Her own life, she was fairly sure, couldn’t have been worse in either time period. She had no business, no reputation, and the contents of her underwear drawer no doubt being prominently displayed in a Plexiglas case on Roger Peabody’s mantel.

  Yes, the sooner she got on with Fate’s plans for her, the better off she would be.

  “Miss Alexander?”

  She realized that she wasn’t squirming in Seattle, she was rapidly thawing out in jolly old England in the car of a man who was probably counting the minutes until he could get her out onto some sort of tarmac.

  “I’m fine,” she said, straightening abruptly. “I’m fine, thank you.”

  She couldn’t look at him, because he would still be wearing that polite expression that he no doubt used for all those he had to be polite to.

  She found the clutch, took hold of the gearshift, and hoped for the best.

  It was no mean feat to get that car up that very long driveway—especially with Stephen de Piaget sitting next to her, no doubt marking every drip on his coat and his former cow-turned-expensive-seats—but she managed it without killing the engine. It was not a very smooth ride, however.

  She lurched to a stop in front of what looked like the front door, then fumbled around for the key until she figured out how to turn the engine off. She couldn’t look at Stephen, and she didn’t want to look at the liveried guy who was trotting down the stairs to get her door for her, so she closed her eyes and made a list.

  Dry clothes, dry self, dry hair. Handsome duke, delicious food, an orchestra that played waltzes—

  Her door opened, but only partway because an arm reached over her and caught the door before it could open more than a crack.

  “Is there a less visible entrance to the hall?” Stephen asked in a low voice.

  Peaches was just sure she would have blushed if she hadn’t been so cold. Never mind that she’d been thinking the very same thing.

  “Drips on the floor and all that,” he added.

  Bonks on the head and all that. She started to say something nasty, then reconsidered. Maybe she should give him the benefit of the doubt. It was entirely
possible he was trying to save her pride by keeping her from looking like an idiot in front of all the nobility in the area.

  “Don’t want her squelching through the halls, do we?” he continued. “A bit of mess there, what?”

  Peaches decided he shouldn’t be given the benefit of the doubt, he should be given a swift boot in the arse. She would have, if she hadn’t been hesitating over the thought of her dirty foot on the seat of his clean trousers.

  Well, apparently there was an entrance in the back for muddy squelchers, something she discovered five minutes later as she was limping through it. She was offered a towel to wipe her feet with, which she greatly appreciated. The servant who had escorted her and Stephen inside looked at her shoes she was carrying in consternation, as if he couldn’t decide if he should offer a plastic bag or a garbage can for their containment.

  A butler of some stripe or other appeared in front of them and looked them over. Or, rather, he looked Stephen over and immediately folded his very tall frame into a respectful bow.

  “Viscount Haulton,” he intoned. “We’ve been expecting you.”

  Stephen made polite conversation. Peaches was too busy dripping to attempt any of the same.

  “And Miss Alexander, I presume,” the man continued, one of his eyebrows raised practically into his hairline.

  Peaches could only nod slightly. She didn’t dare do anything else for fear of scattering droplets of things that might make the butler frown.

  “Oh, Stephen, darling,” a feminine voice said smoothly, “you finally found your way here.”

  “A bit of a slog,” Stephen said, “but I’m here.”

  Peaches agreed with him. He was there. And unfortunately so was she. She leaned to her right to watch two women come sweeping down the final five feet of the hallway and stop to flutter in front of the hapless Viscount Haulton. She recognized one of them as David’s cousin, Andrea. Andrea looked at her, blinked, then her mouth fell open.

  “Peaches?” she asked incredulously.

  “The very same,” Peaches croaked, wishing she had remained amongst the nonjudgmental topiaries outside. “I was caught in the weather.”

  “Obviously,” the other woman said icily. “And you seem to have brought a great deal of that weather inside with you.”

  “Oh, Irene, do be quiet,” Andrea said, rolling her eyes. She reached for Peaches. “Let me take you to your room. This, by the way, is my cousin Irene. She’s David’s sister.”

  “Ah—” Peaches began, but found her input was not necessary. Andrea made arrangements for Peaches’s suitcase to be brought inside, then dragged her off to points unknown.

  She knew she should have memorized where she was going, but it was all she could do to keep up with Andrea’s rapid-fire heels as they clicked across marble floors Peaches was enormously glad she hadn’t had to polish that morning. She felt sorry for whoever was coming along behind her to see to it.

  The floors became less lovely, though, as they progressed, and the art on the walls smaller and then nonexistent. Andrea finally stopped in front of a door in a hallway that had definitely seen better days.

  “Here we are,” Andrea said brightly. She opened the door and flicked on a single bulb that hung down from the ceiling. “Oh,” she said, sounding slightly less enthusiastic. “Well, perhaps there’s a lamp somewhere.”

  There was. Next to a bed that belonged in a school for girls directly inspired by a Charlotte Brontë novel. Peaches found that, as usual lately, her mouth was hanging open. She was so shocked by the absolute starkness of what she was looking at, she couldn’t find anything at all to say.

  “Not to worry,” Andrea announced. “You won’t be spending much time here anyway.”

  Well, there was that. Peaches tried to look on the bright side, but that side was lit by a harsh bulb that looked as if it belonged in a shabby little room where thugs were about to question the good guy about things he wasn’t going to want to reveal.

  “Thomas, this does seem a bit austere, doesn’t it?”

  “My apologies, Lady Andrea,” said a voice from behind Peaches, “but we had a last-minute guest on the list and his rank demanded the accommodations intended for Miss Alexander.”

  “Who was that?” Andrea asked, looking surprised.

  “The Viscount Haulton, of course.”

  Peaches looked over her shoulder to find a butler there herding a footman of some kind who was gingerly holding on to Peaches’s suitcase and her shoes. She wasn’t sure what she would die sooner of: mortification, fury, or frostbite. Given that she was starting to feel her toes again, perhaps the last one should have been removed from the list. Embarrassment, though, was vying for first place with the fury that was fast becoming a grim resignation. There was only one conclusion to come to.

  Stephen de Piaget was trying to ruin her life.

  “Oh, and here is Betty to attend you,” Andrea said cheerfully. “David has obviously put thought into your comfort. Betty, let’s have Miss Alexander’s things unpacked, shall we? Then she will perhaps want to bathe.”

  Peaches couldn’t even nod.

  She was used to the sensation of being somewhere new and uncomfortable. She’d felt that way when she’d come to England the first time. She’d endured it numerous times in college while switching apartments and having to get to know an entirely new set of roommates. She had learned to manage the feeling very well thanks to a variety of experiences, but now it was as if she’d never dealt with it at all.

  If she’d been a bawler, she would have sat down and bawled. Instead, she gulped. Several times. She continued to gulp as Betty put her sopping-wet suitcase on the end of the bed and began to pull equally sodden clothing from it.

  “Oh,” Andrea said, sounding slightly horrified. “Peaches, look at your gown.”

  Peaches did, then wished she hadn’t. Her ball gown, which she shouldn’t have packed in a suitcase anyway, was wrinkled beyond repair. Peaches wasn’t entirely sure it wasn’t wet as well.

  “Never mind,” Andrea said, sweeping the dress up into her arms, “I’ll have it pressed. It will be as good as new.” She blew Peaches a kiss and sailed out the door. “See you at supper later tonight!”

  Supper. Peaches realized then that she hadn’t eaten since breakfast, but considering how upset her stomach was at present, she wasn’t sure that wasn’t a good thing. She was tempted to just go to bed, but perhaps she should at least make an appearance. She watched the tail end of Andrea disappear around the corner, then turned slowly and looked at her maid, who was unpacking the rest of her clothing that showed quite clearly that her suitcase was not waterproof.

  Betty pursed her lips.

  Peaches couldn’t have agreed more. She looked around her room hopefully for some sort of bathroom, but it was obvious none existed. She turned a hopeful glance on Betty.

  “En suite facilities?” she asked.

  Betty pointed toward the door. “Third door down the hallway. I’d make use of the loo quick, though, miss. There’ll be quite a line before suppertime.”

  Peaches imagined there would be.

  She experienced the renewed temptation to go to bed for the evening, but she was cold and filthy, so she put her shoulders back, took the completely inadequate towel she found on a rickety stool near the door, and headed for the loo.

  Even Cinderella had gotten off to a rocky start, hadn’t she?

  Chapter 6

  Stephen resisted the urge to peel Irene’s fingers away from his arm only because he was a gentleman, but what he wanted to be doing was following Peaches to make certain she was treated properly. Given that such was impossible at present, he could only trust that David had put her somewhere close to his own suite of rooms. As long as Peaches had a decent lock on her door, she would be safe enough.

  He continued to listen to Irene talk about things he didn’t care about, which left him making all kinds of polite noises that he didn’t mean. Fifteen very long minutes and a promise to sit with her du
ring supper later, he was hastening through the kitchen and out the back door. His car was where he’d left it, making Kenneworth’s staff nervous. A younger man was pacing restlessly and casting the occasional look at the house, as if he expected someone to come flying out the door to demand to know why the car hadn’t already been put away.

  Stephen trotted down the stairs to the courtyard and smiled reassuringly at him. “Where shall I take it?”

  The young man came close to wringing his hands. “Oh, I’ll see to it for you, my lord. It wouldn’t do for you to see to it yourself.”

  Stephen smiled deprecatingly. “It wouldn’t be the first time, but I appreciate the offer. You might want to put something down on the seat first. It was a bit of a soggy trip here.”

  “I’ll see to it all, my lord,” the lad said. He flashed Stephen a shy smile. “It would be an honor to see to your automobile, my lord. It deserves the best of care.”

  Stephen smiled to himself, made a mental note to see the lad rewarded properly for his pains, then handed his keys over without worry. He walked back into the house to find a servant waiting for him.

  He followed the ancient footman through the house and up the carpeted stairs. The journey was accomplished without haste, which gave him ample opportunity to catalog what he was seeing. He had actually never been inside Kenneworth House. His father and David’s father had been frostily polite to each other in public and rather pointedly rude in private, which had precluded any invitations being extended.

  Stephen hadn’t been inclined to bother much with David, though, which left him sadly failing to continue on the tradition of animosity. He’d heard from more than one source that there had been troubles going on between the families for generations, but he’d honestly never had an interest in finding out exactly what they concerned. Some offense given at some point, no doubt, leading to centuries of slurs being spoken in the privacy of libraries. It was nothing more than scores of other offenses dealt out over the centuries between other families.

  Though as he glanced at portraits of Kenneworth ancestors staring down at him from their perches on the walls, he couldn’t help but wonder which was the one who had either started or joined in the amusement. He paused at the top of the stairs and looked at the portrait of a man wearing rather medieval-looking garb.