All for You

by Lynn Kurland

  He smiled. “No, it’s the thought of running me into the ground. A little pity beforehand is not uncalled for.”

  She folded her arms over her chest. “I believe, Lord Haulton, that you owe me an answer to my question.”

  “Run it out of me, wench.”

  “Don’t think I can’t.”

  He had absolutely no doubt of it. And she proved it to him quite handily not an hour later on the track where apparently she was indeed determined to run him into the ground. He finally begged her to stop, then walked until he had to lean over with his hands on his thighs and catch his breath.

  “You’re going to be the death of me,” he wheezed.

  “You don’t have to run with me.”

  “That would leave me chasing you, which would be much worse, I assure you.” He straightened, promised himself more time in trainers in the future, then looked at her. He pursed his lips. At least she was breathing hard for a change. “Once.”

  She blinked. “Once, what?”

  “Love,” he said succinctly. “Once.”

  She put her hands on her hips. “How did it turn out?”

  He dragged his forearm across his forehead and prayed for good sense to return. He looked at her, finally. “Let’s go.”

  Her mouth fell open. “That’s all I get?”

  “That’s all you get.”

  “You—you—” She spluttered for a minute, then glared at him. “I bared my soul to you and this is what I get?”

  He shrugged. “I’m a man.”

  “If we weren’t in a public place, I would punch you right now.”

  He smiled, because he doubted it. “What would you like to do tonight?”

  “Are you asking me out on a date, you perfidious rat?”

  He laughed, because she was within reach, she didn’t care for David Preston, and she was interested enough in his heart to call him names.

  He was absolutely lost.

  “Yes,” he said happily. “I am.”

  “Well, I don’t want to go,” she grumbled. “Unless your offer is very good.”

  “Supper?” he ventured. “The symphony? A film?”

  “Dinner at your house and the rest of the evening listening to you read the Canterbury Tales,” she countered. “In the original vernacular.”

  He blinked. “Are you in earnest?”

  “I think I can more easily wring details out of you when you have that little pucker between your eyes you get when you’re concentrating.”

  “I don’t have details—”

  She walked away. “Let’s go, sport.”

  Several hours later, he was sitting in front of his fire in his own study, wending his way through Chaucer’s finest, acutely aware of the stunning woman sitting next to him on the sofa with her legs curled up underneath her. He finally could bear it no longer. He set the book down on his lap, turned, leaned forward, and kissed her.

  He pulled back slightly to see how she was reacting. She wasn’t plowing her fist into his nose or grimacing, so he slipped his hand under her hair and made a proper job of it.

  “Details,” she murmured at one point.

  “About what?”

  “About you know what.”

  “Once,” he said, kissing her again.

  “How did it turn out?”

  “It hasn’t turned out yet.”

  She opened her eyes and looked at him with a frown. “It hasn’t?”

  He shook his head. “Not yet.”

  She leaned her head back against his arm and looked at him seriously. “So, you’re in love with this girl,” she said carefully, “you don’t know how it’s going to turn out, and yet you’re here with me?”

  “Reading Chaucer, yes,” he agreed.

  “And a few other things, buster. And I wasn’t talking about books.” She looked at him in the vicinity of his chin. He might have thought she was near to bolting, but she had her fingers linked with his that rested on her knee and she wasn’t pulling away. She considered for a bit longer, then met his gaze. “You are many things, Stephen, but you aren’t a cad.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I don’t think.”

  “Thank you,” he said dryly.

  “So, since you aren’t a cad, why are you here with me?”

  “I imagine,” he said, bending his head and making further inroads into the indulgence of kissing her, “that you’ll figure it out eventually.”

  “Are you patronizing me?” she asked sternly.

  “Kissing you, rather.”

  “Why?”

  He thought of half a dozen easy things he could have said, but could manage none of them, so he merely pulled back and looked at her. She was, as he had noted before, a terribly intelligent woman. And whilst he generally made a habit of schooling his features, he didn’t do so at present. He simply looked at her and hoped exactly what he was feeling was showing clearly on his face.

  And he saw in her eyes the precise moment that realization dawned.

  Her mouth fell open. She pushed away from him and jumped to her feet. He was pleased to see that she wasn’t all that steady on them, but she held him off and stepped a pace or two away. She wrapped her arms around herself and looked down at him in shock.

  “You can’t be serious.”

  It was obvious she was appalled, but he wasn’t sure exactly why. Either she wanted nothing to do with him—which he feared—or she couldn’t believe he wanted anything to do with her—which he couldn’t imagine.

  “Can’t I?” he asked seriously.

  She pointed at him with a trembling finger. “You’re the bloody future Earl of Artane!”

  He set Chaucer aside. “Is that it?”

  She lifted her chin. “I am keenly aware, my lord, of our disparate stations.”

  His mouth had fallen open. He knew that because it took him a moment to close it. “What absolute bollocks.”

  “It isn’t,” she said, lifting her chin a bit more. “I am not willing to be a dalliance. And yes, I’m well aware that is what David Preston had in mind for me.”

  “I am not David Preston.”

  “No, you’re the bloody future Earl of Artane.”

  “You said that already. And you shouldn’t swear.”

  “Go to hell!”

  He looked at her for a moment in silence, then he bowed his head and laughed.

  “Besides, bloody isn’t a swear word in the States,” she said crisply. “And neither is crap.”

  He pursed his lips to keep from laughing again and looked up at her. “I suppose not.”

  She stepped back another pace and wrapped her arms around herself. “I need to run.”

  The look on her face did it. She looked positively shattered and that had about the same effect as having a trough of freezing cold water poured on him. Only the buckets at Artane were heated, because he and his father valued their horseflesh.

  He realized he was rambling, but honestly, Peaches Alexander had him so off balance, he could hardly think straight. He rose and walked over to pull her gently into his arms. She was trembling, but he imagined that wasn’t from the cold. She did, after all, have on a lovely cashmere sweater that Humphreys had so capably picked out for her.

  And once she had stopped shivering as much, he was able to face what he hadn’t wanted to before: that she didn’t care for him.

  “Do you think,” he asked, when he thought he could, “that you might learn to overcome your dislike for me?”

  Her arms were suddenly around his waist. “I never disliked you.”

  “So, are you telling me that it had descended to sheer loathing?”

  The sound she made was muffled against his shoulder. It might have been a laugh, but he couldn’t have said for sure. It was enough that she didn’t sound as if she were weeping. She stood there in his arms for several minutes without speaking, then pulled away slightly and looked up at him.

  “I don’t think this will work, my lord.”

  He shrugged.
“I’m not a bloody prince of the realm, darling. I can choose my own path.”

  “Stephen, you are, as I seem to have to keep reminding you, the future Earl of Artane. You can’t date a Yank.”

  “I wasn’t talking about dating you, Peaches.”

  She looked at him carefully. “Then what are you talking about?”

  “A very medieval sort of wooing, then an incredibly public and overdone wedding.”

  Her mouth fell open. “You’re asking me to marry you?”

  “Well, I thought I would work on the wooing first.”

  She pushed out of his arms and backed away. She gaped at him for a moment or two in silence, then turned away and walked to the door. She paused with her hand on the wood, then turned and looked at him.

  Tears were running down her cheeks.

  He wondered when it would be—if ever—that the woman didn’t leave him almost constantly winded. He took his pride in his hand and walked over to her. He hesitated, then reached out and drew her into his arms. That she came willingly was, he had to admit, something of a relief. He closed his eyes and rested his cheek against her hair.

  “Are you sure you’re not mistaking me for my sister?” she asked hoarsely. “She’s the one with all the degrees and the title.”

  “No, Peaches,” he said quietly. “I’m not mistaking you for your sister.”

  He held her in silence for several more very long, very pleasant minutes, then lifted her face up and brushed away the two stray tears that were still on her cheeks.

  “Shall I tell you when it was I first loved you?” he asked quietly.

  “Stephen—”

  “It was when I found myself standing in Sedgwick’s great hall,” he continued, trying not to enjoy the sound of his name from her lips more than he should have, “wondering just where your sister Pippa had gotten to, and you walked in the door. Of course, Tess had been telling me stories of you for years, but I always held in the back of my mind that you couldn’t possibly be that perfect.”

  “She exaggerates,” Peaches managed.

  “In your case, she certainly didn’t.”

  “No one falls in love at first sight,” she said quietly.

  “Don’t they?” he asked seriously.

  “I think it takes about a week, actually.”

  He looked at her for a moment, then realized just what she was getting at. He blinked. “A week?”

  She nodded. “About a week.”

  “Would you care to elaborate on that particular week?”

  She smiled faintly. “Fishing, my lord Haulton?”

  “Absolutely.”

  She sighed and tension seemed to go out of her. “You were our rock,” she said. “My rock, actually, when Pippa left. You made me laugh, brought me tea, made me hike over those bloody dunes of yours to the beach and walk for hours. Of course, I didn’t want to like you—or anything more, for that matter—because I knew nothing could come of it.” She met his eyes. “You being who you are, after all.”

  “Rubbish—”

  “It isn’t,” she insisted, “and that you take it seriously is part of your charm, actually.” She shrugged lightly. “There you were, the handsome lord from the fairy-tale castle who got on his white horse to rescue me from the grief of losing a sister. Pretty potent stuff.” She looked at him again. “I will say that you were a pretty quiet rescuer, though.”

  “That’s because you left me breathless,” he said honestly. “And I was afraid of making an arse of myself—which I did. I’ve been trying ever since to figure out how to get back into your good graces.”

  She looked at him seriously. “Stephen, this can’t—” Her phone rang from across the room. She looked at it, then at him. “That’s probably Tess. She’s the only one who calls this late.”

  “By all means, answer it.” He looked at her seriously. “I’ll be here.”

  Actually, he thought he would be better off sitting whilst he had the chance, so he retreated to the sofa. He sat with a sigh, leaned back against the couch, and contented himself with watching her. He had told her that it was stories of her that had first left him half in love with her, but that was simply a part of it. He had looked at her as she stood in the middle of Sedgwick’s great hall and felt something in his soul shift, then settle. It had nothing to do with her beauty, or figure, or the way she had of putting her shoulders back and marching off into the fray. He had watched her smile and just known she was the one for him.

  “It’s David,” she said.

  Stephen found himself brought back to the present without mercy. He waved her on without comment because he could do nothing else. She frowned at him, then answered her phone. Stephen tried not to listen, but unfortunately his house was very quiet and he had very good hearing. The only thing that eased him any was that she didn’t sound too terribly thrilled by her conversation.

  “Tomorrow night?” Peaches said slowly. “Well, I’m not sure where Chattam Hall is— Oh, London. I see.”

  Stephen dragged his hand through his hair. Damn it. Chattam Hall belonged to his maternal grandmother who held court there each Saturday. He’d completely forgotten the upcoming weekend spectacle of supper and entertainment, though in his defense, he had been slightly preoccupied during the past few days. In the past, those Saturday parties had included his hobnobbing with politicians and his grandmother’s steely eye looking over the women he danced with. At least he didn’t have to worry about Victoria vying for his attentions at present. Unfortunately even with her out of the picture, it wasn’t exactly the ideal situation in which to introduce Peaches to his grandmother.

  But it was for damned sure he wasn’t going to let her go with David Preston if he could prevent it.

  He looked at Peaches and shook his head firmly.

  She shot him a look he couldn’t quite interpret. “Lord Haulton’s grandmother? No, I didn’t understand the connection. I have no idea if he’ll be there or not.”

  Stephen pointed at her, then at himself, then he nodded pointedly.

  Peaches ignored him. “I’m not sure what my plans are for the weekend. Let me call you back, all right?”

  Stephen held up his hands as she rang off. “Honestly, it had completely slipped my mind. It isn’t exactly anything I look forward to.”

  “Standing dates with the Terrible Trio?” she asked lightly.

  He took a deep breath. “I have no idea, but it wouldn’t surprise me. My grandmother’s guest list is always extensive, so I’m sure they’ll be there. Well, perhaps not Victoria, who has never, ever spent the night at my house. If you were curious.”

  “I wasn’t.”

  “You’re a terrible liar.”

  She sighed as she walked across the room and collapsed onto the couch next to him. “Then I probably shouldn’t go.”

  “Of course you should,” he said. “With me.”

  “Stephen,” she said seriously, “I can’t date you.”

  “Actually, you can do quite a bit more than that with me, but I am willing to concede that there needs to be some carefully premeditated maneuvering with my grandmother if we’re to keep her from thinking too long on the fact that she hasn’t had a hand in our relationship.” That was perhaps understating the potential for his grandmother’s ire, but there was no point in worrying over it beforehand. As he had told Peaches before, he was capable of choosing his own path. Whether others would agree with that path or not was something he couldn’t control. He sighed. “I suppose you could allow Kenneworth to take you there if you think you can stomach him. I’ll see that John and Tess are invited so they can take you home.” He shot her a look. “First and last time, though, Peaches.”

  She considered, then picked up her phone and texted her change of mind. Then she set her phone down and looked at him seriously.

  “Even if this were possible,” she said slowly, “I’m not sure how this would work.”

  “One step at a time,” he said easily.

  She took a deep breat
h. “What’s the first step?”

  “We get through the evening tomorrow after you’ve spent the day in London being pampered.”

  “More things to work off,” she said with a sigh.

  “More herding,” he corrected, then he paused. “Peaches, if I’m pushing you too fast, or pushing you in a direction you’re not interested in …”

  “What?” she asked politely. “You’ll stop?”

  He was tempted to match her tone, but he couldn’t. “I might,” he said simply.

  She studied him in silence for a moment or two. “Would you?”

  “I would change tactics,” he amended, “but unless you gave me a very serious shove … well, no.”

  “This is insane.” She blew a stray strand of hair out of her eyes. “You can’t marry a Yank.”

  “It worked for my brother.”

  “He’s not the heir.”

  He looked at her seriously. “We’ll see if my father has any objections, which he won’t. Then, if you’re still unsure, we’ll use that bloody gate near my father’s hall, march up to either Rhys or Robin de Piaget, and get their blessing. Then will you be satisfied?”

  She shrugged. “I’m only thinking of you.”

  “Stop being so bloody altruistic.”

  She smiled. “You shouldn’t swear so much.”

  He rolled his eyes, but he also happily took advantage of the fact that she was willing to come a bit closer and allow him to do something more constructive than swear.

  At least it would leave him with a few happy memories to think on whilst he was watching David Preston clumsily attempt to pursue her in a place where he couldn’t simply take the man out in the back and shoot him.

  Chapter 21

  Peaches yawned as she waited for David to get in his side of the car and drive her to Chattam Hall, which apparently housed the most illustrious hostess in London who just happened to be Stephen’s grandmother.

  Louise Heydon-Brooke was, Peaches had learned, Stephen’s maternal grandmother, which meant her connection to Artane was simply through her daughter’s marriage. She was a baroness in her own right, which Peaches realized meant that Stephen would eventually have yet another title to add to his collection.