by Lynn Kurland
He almost sat down. “No, you did not, you vile wench.”
She laughed. “You realize that wasn’t English, my lord.”
“I have an entire collection of things not English I could use on you.”
She patted him on the back, which just about finished him off right there.
“You had probably better save your breath for them, hadn’t you?”
He heaved himself upright and pursed his lips. “I don’t suppose you’d want to carry me back to school, would you?”
She only smiled at him and ran away.
He watched her go. The only benefit he could see to doing something that restored her good humor so thoroughly was that at least he would be nursing sore muscles whilst she was out to dinner with a man who wasn’t him.
And then he, poor fool that he was, followed after her.
Chapter 19
Peaches looked at herself in the bathroom mirror of a bed-and-breakfast room so luxurious, she didn’t dare speculate about the nightly cost of it. Just the fact that it was within walking distance of Stephen’s college sent shivers down her financial spine. She could only hope that Stephen was getting a break with a weekly rate. And if not, she would just have to trade him out her work for the accommodations. She wouldn’t make any money—in fact she would probably end up owing him money—but she wouldn’t feel like she was bankrupting him. Or being the recipient of his charity.
Not that he would have termed it such. Tess had often commented on his generosity, both with time and means, but Peaches had never expected to be the beneficiary of either.
Life was strange.
She jumped a little at the sound of her phone ringing. She wondered if it would be impolite to just let it ring through to her voice mail. The last person she wanted to talk to was David Preston. He had been charming the night before, attentive, said all the right, flattering things. If she had gone out to dinner with him a month earlier, she would have been absolutely giddy with delight. He was, as she had noted several times before, just right.
But last night instead of finding him flattering and charming, she had found him conceited and unpleasant. His interests were seemingly limited to complimenting himself and disparaging anyone from Artane. She had actually been rather surprised by the viciousness of his attacks on Stephen.
And rather ashamed of herself that she had, at one point, probably been all too willing to agree with them.
The only saving grace of the evening had been that Stephen had been waiting with his office door open when David had dropped her off, which had allowed her to avoid any unwanted advances. David had been quite obvious about his irritation that she’d offered a friendly handshake instead of a passionate embrace, but she’d found herself surprisingly unconcerned about what he thought.
It was odd how a few days in the company of a certain de Piaget lad had completely changed her perspective on quite a few things.
She blinked and pulled herself back to the present when she realized her phone was still ringing in her hand. She looked down, fully expecting to see David’s number only to see Stephen’s instead. She answered it, surprised he would call her when he knew she was going to be in his office in less than half an hour.
“Yes?”
“Change of plans,” he said briskly.
Her heart stopped—and not in a good way. Maybe he’d decided that feeding, housing, and clothing her while she was dating however reluctantly another man just wasn’t something he cared to do. “A change of plans?” she echoed.
“On-site research,” he said, “in Bath. Would you object to that?”
She sat down on her bed because the relief that rushed through her gave her no choice. “I thought you were going to fire me.”
He was silent for a long minute. “That thought hadn’t crossed my mind, actually.”
“Well, there is that.”
“There is,” he agreed. “So, are you amenable to a journey?”
She considered. A day spent closed up in an office with Stephen reading books, or a day spent partially cooped up in a car with Stephen but the rest of the time wandering through one of her favorite cities in England.
“Are you really going to make me work,” she asked, “or is this just for fun?”
“A day off?” he asked, sounding faintly horrified. “Certainly not. I have note-taking supplies for you as well as a flask full of tasteless gruel for your lunch.”
She let out her breath slowly, because the thought of notes and gruel and Stephen de Piaget all in the same place for an entire day was almost too good to be true. “I think I can live with that.”
“Then hurry yourself into comfortable clothes, and let’s be off.”
She realized he was not only speaking French, he was speaking a rather vintage version of it. Obviously that little trip to medieval England had affected him adversely. She frowned. “I think we should use modern French today, my lord. People will look at us strangely otherwise.”
“Do you think we could discuss that later so I don’t freeze my arse off out here on your front stoop?”
“Is the tweed not keeping you warm?” she asked sweetly.
He made a noise of exasperation. “I’m wearing jeans, Peaches.”
She smiled in spite of herself at the sound of his saying her name. And if just that had her going, she imagined she was going to be in big trouble for the rest of the day.
“I have jeans, too,” she managed. And she did, and they weren’t the ones she’d brought with her from Seattle with the smiley face patch over the rip on the bum. These were jeans that Humphreys had bought her that went with very lovely, stylish boots and yet another sweater in Stephen’s favorite fabric.
“Then put them on and hurry.”
“Be right there.”
She hung up, flung herself into clothes, dragged a pick through her hair, and grabbed her backpack on her way out of her room. She thought it might be prudent to have breakfast to tide her over until she could have her gruel, so she poached a couple of scones from a sideboard and hurried for the front door.
She came to a skidding halt on the porch.
If she hadn’t known better, she would have—well, she wouldn’t have suspected she was looking at the future Earl of Artane. She struggled not to drop her scones, then considered the man standing twenty feet away from her. If there was one thing John de Piaget knew how to do, it was look like a very suave, very bad boy. Leather jacket, fast car, smoldering looks.
Maybe it ran in the family.
Peaches managed to get herself down the steps, down the walkway, and to a stop in front of a black-leather-jacket clad, jeans-wearing, boot-sporting man who didn’t look like anyone they would let into Cambridge without a thorough background check. She would have put her hand over her racing heart, but she was holding on to scones.
“I’ll bet Granny doesn’t approve of this look,” she wheezed. “Are you in disguise?”
One side of his mouth quirked up, finishing what was left of her knees and her good sense. “I own casual clothing.”
“I can see that.”
He opened the door. “You’d better sit down before you fall there.”
“I’m weak because I haven’t had breakfast yet,” she said archly. She started to get in, then hesitated. “I don’t think I should eat in your car. Not after everything else I’ve done to it.”
He removed one of the scones from her hand. “It’s just a car. There’s tea waiting inside for you.”
She looked at him seriously. “You are a very nice man.”
He opened his mouth to say something, then apparently thought better of it. He settled for a hint of a smile and a nod toward the empty seat.
Peaches sat, supposing that since she’d already destroyed the inside of his car with her soggy self the weekend before, a few scone crumbs weren’t going to make things worse. The inside of the car, however, didn’t seem to be as trashed as she’d remembered it being. Humphreys at his usual work of busily making t
hings right, apparently.
She waited until they were well out of Cambridge and Stephen had finished breakfast before she attempted any conversation. “The clothes are lovely. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” he said, negotiating the rather heavy traffic. “Humphreys has good taste in ladies’ wear.” He shot her a brief look. “And you won’t be giving me money for them.”
“I wasn’t planning on it,” she said, finding herself slightly satisfied at his subsequent twitch of surprise. “I’ll work it off researching.”
“No, you won’t.”
“Yes, I will.”
“Nay, lady, you will not.”
“Don’t think you’re going to intimidate me with that medieval French,” she said, trying to sound stern. “I understand you.”
“Do you understand the swear words?”
“Tess needed someone to practice with and Aunt Edna’s rigorous Gallic conversation had prepared us both for further study.”
Stephen smiled briefly. “I think I would appreciate your aunt Edna.”
“She’s still tormenting morning glory in her garden,” Peaches said, “and I’m sure she would find that your French meets her exacting standards.” She looked out the window as the scenery crawled by. “I’ve thought about going and begging my garret back—”
“Don’t.”
She looked at him in surprise. “What?”
He shot her a look. “I have several things for you to research still.”
She wished she had something witty and pithy to say in return, but all she could do was look at him and try to keep breathing normally. The truth was, while she was a good researcher, he could probably find a better one at the university. And she hadn’t been born yesterday. He hadn’t given her something to do just to keep her busy, or because he was taking pity on her.
She just couldn’t bring herself to think about what in the world he was possibly thinking because it was too ridiculous to contemplate.
She spent the rest of the trip south—and it was a rather long trip south—making polite chitchat with him. She was fairly sure they had discussed everything from the unfortunate state of cuisine to be found in London to how much money her parents had socked away thanks to buying stock in cotton and hemp, but she couldn’t have said for sure. All she knew was that she was in very great danger of undoing all the work she’d put into disliking Stephen de Piaget.
Fortunately for her heart, by the time they reached Bath, she had managed to make a rather depressing but accurate list as to why their relationship, such as it was, had no future.
She was the research assistant. He was the future Earl of Artane. She was a Yank. He was, again, the future Earl of Artane. She loved puttering in a garden, watching things grow, making small improvements to lives and closets. He was the bloody future Earl of bloody Artane, he wore tweed, and he would spend the rest of his life managing enormous estates and trying not to let his family be bankrupted by excessive taxes.
Besides, when it came right down to it—and she had to tell herself this several times before she could put the appropriate amount of enthusiasm behind the thought—she didn’t really like him all that much. He was serious and studious and did lots of things she was really bored by such as filling young minds with tradition and history and glorious ideals of chivalry and nobility. She would be very happy when she had done all the research for him he needed and could get back to having him out of her life.
By the time he had parked his excessively expensive automobile and come around to open her door for her, she was beginning to think she might need a run. She grabbed her backpack and crawled out of the car, looking for the closest escape route. She realized she wasn’t going to manage it only because Stephen was in her way. He still had hold of her door and his hand on the roof of his car, effectively boxing her in.
Or keeping her safe, depending on how one looked at it.
She was suddenly having a hard time catching her breath. “We can’t do this,” she blurted out, because she had to say something.
He looked at her in surprise. “What? Come to Bath?”
She realized she was on the verge of making a colossal ass of herself because she was obviously the only one who was thinking thoughts beyond picking up a few Regency tidbits for him to use in his next paper. She looked around quickly for something intelligent to say. “I mean, we can’t go around town today without, ah, some water. To drink. In case we get thirsty.”
He looked at her as if she had lost her mind.
She was beginning to think that might be the case.
He backed up, pulled her out of the way of the door so he could close it, then took her by the hand.
“We’ll find some at our first opportunity. Until then, why don’t we talk about sheepdogs.” He glanced at her. “Or shepherds.”
She blinked. “Why in the world would we want to do that?”
“Humor me.”
She supposed it was better than slugging him. She settled for rolling her eyes. “The only thing I know about sheepdogs and shepherds is that they probably drive the sheep crazy with all their fussing.”
He started up the street, towing her along with him. “Actually, it’s my understanding that they do everything possible to keep their sheep safe.”
“And herded,” she muttered.
“Fussed over,” he said, glancing at her. “There’s a difference.”
“Do you de Piaget men understand the difference?” she asked pointedly.
He stopped and looked at her. If she had been a more fanciful type, she would have thought he was considering pulling her into his arms and kissing her. She wondered if he noticed that she had lifted her hair off the back of her neck with her free hand. Just to get a little draft going, of course.
He brought her hand to his mouth and kissed the back of it. Peaches gaped at him.
“Better shut that,” he advised. “People will think I’m saying appalling things to you.”
“You are.”
“I haven’t said anything yet.”
“You’re looking at me.”
He looked at her a bit more. “Why don’t you reserve judgment for the day,” he said with a small smile, “and we’ll see how I do.”
“With the herding thing?”
“That, too.”
She closed her eyes briefly. “This isn’t going to work.”
“Are you sure?”
She looked at him, into his very lovely gray eyes, and had to take a deep breath. “I’m pretty sure.”
He ran his thumb over the back of her hand. She wasn’t sure he knew he was doing it, but maybe he was trying to soothe them both.
“Why don’t you give me one day,” he said very quietly. “Just one day of allowing me to herd you exactly the way I want to.”
She swallowed, barely. A tall, extremely handsome, profoundly chivalrous man was asking her to give him an entire day to treat her like a fairy-tale princess, and she was kicking up a fuss?
“Okay,” she breathed.
He looked at her closely. “Feel like running?”
“It would be the wisest thing to do,” she said honestly, “but I think my shoes would give me blisters.”
He smiled, that small little smile she was becoming hopelessly addicted to, then pulled her along with him down the street. “Don’t expect me to buy you another pair.”
“Don’t you care about my blisters?” she managed.
“I care very much, which is why I think running would be a very unwise activity for you today. Being fussed over is much less hard on your feet. And given the fact that you almost ran me into the ground yesterday, I’m all for easy on the feet today.”
“You know, Stephen,” she said, “you can be very charming when you want to be.”
He shot her another smile. “I want to be.”
She walked with him for another few minutes, then looked up at him. “Why?”
“Why not?”
She looked at him seriously.
“Is that the answer?”
He looked at her with a glance that was definitely better suited to a black leather jacket than a tweed sport coat, then pulled her out of pedestrian traffic. She wondered if he was going to give her another lecture on sheepdogs, or just a very long list of reasons why hanging out with a Yank was a good change from his trio of debutantes—well, minus the one who had tossed a valuable book into the fire.
But he didn’t.
He took her face in his hands, bent his head, and kissed her.
Peaches was so surprised, her knees buckled. He caught her around the waist, slipped his free hand under her hair, and kissed her again. She clutched his arms because she had to in order to keep herself still on her feet.
He lifted his head and looked at her from stormy gray eyes.
“That’s why.”
“I’m not sure I understand,” she managed.
“Let me herd you for the day, then you tell me if you want further clarification.”
She shivered. “Stephen—”
He kissed her again and did a proper job of it. Peaches put her arms around his neck because that seemed a very sensible thing to do. Well, that and in spite of the respectable number of men she had kissed over the course of her life, she had never before kissed one who made her want to hold on and never let go.
She came back to herself only because she heard a very loud complaint right next to her ear.
“Cheeky yobs,” said a weathered voice in disgust. “Kissing out in the open!”
Stephen lifted his head and looked at a gray-haired granny. “I apologize, miss.”
“Missus,” said the woman sharply. “Mrs. Yeats.”
“Mrs. Yeats,” Stephen repeated dutifully. “My most abject apologies, Mrs. Yeats.”
Mrs. Yeats scowled fiercely at him, then continued on her way. Peaches would have gaped at her, but she was too busy trying not to gape at Stephen. He only smiled at her, which finished what was left of her good sense.
“Regency delights?” he asked politely.
“Is that what that was?” she asked.
He laughed and took her hand to lead her off to who knew where. She didn’t suppose she dared ask.