by Nichole Van
Her question: “Excuse me, but have you seen a man dressed up like Mr. Darcy from Pride and Prejudice? Ya know, tall, cravat, coat, dark-haired . . . brooding?”
Answers:
“No.”
“Hell, no.”
“No, but if you find him, love, send him my way.”
“Pleeeeeease tell me he’s wearing a top hat and extra tight breeches too? Because anything less will kill this story for me.”
“Why, yes, dearie. Did you check the churchyard?”
And that was that.
Jasmine found Linwood sitting against the ancient wooden door of the parish church.
Sopping wet with mud spattered over his waistcoat, breeches and boots. Hat resting on the ground beside him. Hair plastered to his forehead. Cravat untied and hanging loose around his neck, shirt opened at the throat and soaking wet.
Head back. Eyes closed. Wrists resting loosely on his pulled up knees.
Basically, beautifully mussed.
“I can’t believe you did that to Ethel’s grapefruit.”
His eyes snapped open. “Pardon?”
Drat. She hadn’t meant for that to come out—
“I cannot say I am entirely certain what, precisely, a grapefruit is, much less who Ethel could be or why she would have one.” His look turned quizzical.
Trust Linwood to not let something politely go.
“Just . . . nevermind.” She changed the subject. “I found you.”
“Indeed. You did.” A calculated pause. “Miss Fleury.” His tone dripped condescension. Pointedly reminding her that he was to be addressed as ‘my lord.’
The. Nerve.
She had gotten off her cozy couch and put on her cutest sweater and then had biked miles in the cold only wearing the aforementioned not-terribly-warm (though, remember, cute) sweater, and had uttered the phrase ‘cravat, coat, dark-haired and brooding” five times to complete strangers, two of whom had made it very clear they thought her a nutcase—
She was an American, for crying out loud. Americans ‘my lorded,’ like, no one. Wasn’t it against The Constitution?
Life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness of not having to call people lords?
It was definitely something like that . . .
Reading the ire on her face, he raised a cool eyebrow, flicked his eyes up and down her person, clearly dismissing her darling sweater (lace cuffs and pearl buttons!), and then closed his eyes, resting his head back on the door. Again.
Completely ignoring her.
Oh!
She totally should have said all that out loud.
“Well, Timothy . . .” She lingered nice and long on his name, causing his head to jerk back to attention. That was better. “Given that I have just spent the better part of two hours searching for you, I would expect perhaps a teensy bit of gratitude.”
Or even a casual ‘jolly well done’ or whatever it was British lords said to each other in Parliament—
“Jolly well done?”
Damn. Now she stopped filtering—
“I am terribly sorry, Miss Fleury,”—the Miss a sibilant hiss—“but as I know the precise location of Duir Cottage relative to my current position, I was unaware that I was, in fact, lost—”
“Please! Look at yourself. You are the absolute definition of ‘lost.’”
“I beg your pardon?”
Jasmine gestured her hand up and down, indicating his clothing.
Which, to be honest, was a complete mess. Wet, muddy, disheveled.
He was a complete mess.
His pale eyes gave her another similar perusal. No doubt noting her knees knocking a little from the cold. Though did he linger just a tiny bit on her cute sweater?
And why, why, why would she care even if he had?
“What happened?” she asked, folding her arms across said darling sweater as the March chill seeped in. Why hadn’t she grabbed her coat? Stupid vanity.
Silence.
“You are cold.” It was not a question.
She looked at his drawn lips, noting the bluish tinge. “So are you,” she replied.
He shrugged and then pushed himself to his feet.
Make that up, up, up to his feet. She craned her neck to see into his face.
Did his body have to be as big as his ego?
With purposeful calm, he pulled off his long, drenched overcoat, resting it carefully over the top of a nearby gravestone. Underneath, he wore a dark blue wool coat, tightly tailored to his broad shoulders. His greatcoat had spared his blue coat from mud and ruin. Which, given how lovely it looked, wasn’t a bad thing.
With purposeful tugs, he stripped off the blue coat, leaving himself in an untied cravat, waistcoat and shirtsleeves. All three of which were soaked to the skin in a strip running from his chin to his waist.
And, no. She had not just stolen a glance at the wet white shirt glued to the front of his chest.
Nope.
She raised her eyes up to his, determined not to look down again. Which was a bit of a mistake. As his eyes were baleful and direct, at present.
“You are cold,” he repeated, shoving the blue coat into her hands.
Jasmine startled and reflexively grabbed the coat. Opened her mouth to give a resounding retort. Shut it. And then frowned.
Without waiting to see if she put the coat on, he turned, picked up his overcoat and, taking several steps away from her, shook off the excess water.
Jasmine stood very still. Painfully aware of the coat in her hands, still warm from the heat of his body.
Deliciously warm, in fact.
She tentatively moved her hand. The wool was incredibly soft, feeling almost like cashmere. And it was lined with . . . silk? A gorgeous, nubby silk. Hand-dyed with natural colors, surely. And all definitely hand-sewn with precise stitches. The hours of workmanship in such a garment—
Why would he do something so chivalrous?
Talk about taking the wind out of her sails.
She should refuse to wear it. Sheerly on principle.
But he was right. She was cold. And she would hate to be rude.
Especially given that he had done something vaguely . . . decent.
Nice, even.
With a grudging sigh, she slid her arms into the still-warm coat, shivering as the heat of it hit her chilled back. Feeling just a little too much like he had wrapped her up in his arms.
The coat drowned her, as was to be expected, but she pushed her hands down through the silk-lined sleeves and then pulled the bulk around her, burying her nose into it for added warmth.
What was the English saying? In for a penny, in for a pound?
Something like that.
And then she got a noseful of the coat. Or, rather, a noseful of him.
Wool and sandalwood with subtle hints of fresh hay and wood smoke.
Was this what the nineteenth century smelled like?
A far cry from the cigarette smoke and carbon monoxide of twenty-first century cities.
Or was the smell his own? Eau d’Linwood?
That didn’t actually sound too bad.
She took another deep breath. Fine. It smelled rather divine too.
How could such a nasty person smell so good?
Though, given that he had just relinquished his coat to her, he couldn’t be all bad . . .
Linwood gave his long overcoat one last good shake, surprisingly muscular shoulders rippling underneath his white shirt—not that she noticed . . . well . . . not too much—and then shrugged into it.
Seeing his hat still sitting next to the church door, Jasmine stooped and picked it up.
“You almost forgot your hat.”
Linwood turned around, and she extended the hat toward him.
“Thank you.” He reached for it. Their gazes tangled.
She froze, hand still clutching the hat brim.
His eyes . . .
So pale. Bloodshot.
Gutted. Shell-shocked.
Lost.
His cheeks clearly stubbled with a five o’clock shadow and speckled with dabs of mud.
He flinched at her gaze. As if he disliked what he saw there.
Clearing his throat, he instantly turned away, tugging his hat free of her grasp in the process.
He slapped his hat against his thigh, back half to her. An errant breeze ruffled his hair.
What had she done?
And did she care to make it right?
“Thank you for your coat,” she said after a moment. “You were right. I was cold.”
Silence. Tap, tap, tap went the hat.
“I do not need, or even desire, your pity, Miss Fleury,” was his cool reply. His deep bass ringing through the churchyard.
Ah.
Well, then.
“I did not desire or need your coat . . . but you gave it to me anyway, Timothy. And I, at least, had the decency to say thank you—”
He whipped around, eyes narrowed and angry. Brows drawn.
And then, paused. Reeled everything back inside. Face becoming instantly impassive.
Kinda eerie how he did that.
“I am a lord, Miss Fleury. A viscount of the realm. So spare me your bleeding heart—”
“Excuse me? Pity is hardly a weakness or even an unwelcome emotion. It simply means that I’m human and my bleeding heart empathizes with your difficult situation. That same heart which decided to get out the door and come find you before something bad happened—”
“I am a grown man. I have been taking care of myself for more years than—”
“Pahlease! Take care of yourself? You’re a nineteenth century viscount of the realm.” Jasmine was rather proud of how she captured his refined, aristocratic drawl. “From what I understand, men like you can’t even dress, shave or, quite frankly, bathe themselves. Does your valet chew your food for you too? Pray, explain to me how that constitutes ‘taking care of oneself’?”
Linwood’s eyes were back to spitting anger. His jaw clenched. Something rippled on his cheeks, there and then gone between blinks.
Why did she get such a thrill from riling him? Why should she care to elicit some emotion from him, no matter how negative?
He was just such . . . a starched shirt.
And, let’s face it, she was much more of a wet-plastered-to-the-chest-shirt kinda gal.
Though his shirt right now . . .
Jasmine shook her head. Not looking down, remember?
“I would not expect one such as yourself”—he spit the word like a curse—“to understand the refined ways of the aristocratic world.”
“I understand your little aristocratic world, alright. So arrogant and full of itself. It’s a wonder you can see past your bloated sense of pride.”
“Pride, where it is warranted, is hardly a sin—”
“That pride keep you warm at night, your worshipfulness? Does it make you happy as you stroll around your big empty house with all its big empty rooms full of . . . of . . . stuff that can do nothing more than silently sit . . . all big and empty-like?”
Linwood blinked. “Pardon?”
Right. What was she trying to say? And why did he bring out the worst in her? What was she fighting here?
She crossed her arms, his heavy coat sleeves tangling her hands. Giving her another hefty whiff of Eau d’Linwood in the process.
“Do you realize how obsolete you are?” She tossed her head. “Every last aristocrat could vanish off the planet right now, and the world would keep on spinning without a blip.”
His head reared back, as if her words had slapped him. Something that looked suspiciously like . . . like pain . . . danced across his face.
Lost. Forlorn.
And then, between one breath and the next, he shuttered it all away.
Wow. How many years did it take to master that level of self-control?
“You are entitled to your own opinion. Please forgive me if I choose not to share it with you.” With a curt, stiff nod, Linwood jammed his hat on his head. “You are welcome to the use of my coat for as long you need. I bid you good afternoon, Miss Fleury. ”
He gave a short, exquisitely polite bow and then turned, striding out of the churchyard.
He would say something about the coat. Talk about making her feel like a heel.
She wanted to peel it off her shoulders and throw it right back into his arrogant, stubborn, proud face—
Jasmine pinched her lips together, staring at his hyper-erect back as he swung open the gate and stepped onto the street. His head swiveled back and forth, obviously trying to determine where to go.
Just walk away, Jasmine.
This broken man clearly did not want her mothering help.
She did not need to be the damsel-in-shining-armor to his knight-in-distress.
And then, it happened.
The unthinkable.
His shoulders . . . sagged.
Not much. Just a faint inch or two of droop. But it was enough.
And in that motion, Jasmine understood the depth of his distress.
In the space of a few short hours, his world had been upended. A proud man used to always being in control. In command.
Stripped of everything he had ever thought important.
And what had she called him? Obsolete?
Yeah, that hadn’t been too nice.
You know my name. Not my story.
Unbidden, the words drifted through her mind.
What was the story behind this man? He hadn’t just been born this way, right?
Ugh. Why did compassion always get the better of her?
The least she could do was call a truce.
Sighing, Jasmine trudged through the gate, stopping beside him on the curb.
He glanced at her. And then turned his face back to the street. Cleared his throat.
And then . . . actually shuffled his feet.
She totally should not have found the motion endearing.
“If you would be so kind as to point the way to the nearest inn—”
“James would kill me if I sent you off to a hotel. The house is more than big enough for the two of us. Let me show you a modicum of hospitality.”
“I do not wish to trespass upon your—”
“Look. We’re both eager for you to return to your own century, and as the portal is in Duir Cottage, you need to stay close. Besides, someone needs to make sure you don’t get plowed down by one of those huge lorries.”
She emphasized the point by gesturing her chin at a Helm Enterprises truck thundering past.
“A bit late for that,” he muttered.
Jasmine instantly bit her lips, knowing Linwood wouldn’t appreciate her laughing at his disheveled state.
“Is that what happened to you?”
He ignored her question.
“What are those called again?” he asked instead, indicating the road where the truck had just disappeared.
“A lorry . . . well, that’s what the British call them. Americans would call that a truck or a semi, I suppose.”
“Ah. So all these vehicles are . . . lorries?”
“No, just the big ones. The smaller ones”—Jasmine nodded at a passing Ford Fiesta—“are formally called automobiles. But everyone just refers to them as cars.”
“Auto from Greek meaning ‘self.’” He nodded. Processing.
“And then mobile, from Latin meaning ‘moving,’” Jasmine added without thinking.
He arched an eyebrow. “Ladies still study Latin, I take it?”
“No. Just me.”
She had totally rocked AP Latin in high school. Cause she was only good at things if they were pointless and practically useless outside of a trivia game.
“Did you drive one into town?” He flicked a hand toward a passing car.
“Not . . . exactly. Let’s get you home and, along the way, allow me to orient you to the basics of twenty-first century life.”
Chapter 10
The road to Duir Cottage
> Twilight on spring equinox
March 20, 2015
Timothy found the walk home to be . . . illustrative.
It provided a welcome distraction from the weight which had set up solid residence about four inches left of his breastbone.
Kinningsley was no more. Or, at the very least, had been sold off, turned into a factory.
The very thought—
Staring unseeing at the road ahead, Timothy slowly breathed through the now-familiar sensations of chest-tightening, throat-choking, heart-beating, hands-tingling.
Rule #37: A gentleman is always in control of himself and his situation.
This too would pass.
Instead, he glanced down at Miss Fleury next to him, guiding that bicycle—completely Greek in origin, that one, bi meaning two and cycle meaning circle—fascinating how the twenty-first century just put words together . . .
Yes, the mental diversion was useful.
It provided a nice buttress between himself and those panicky sensations.
Of course, just looking at Miss Fleury proved the best distraction of all.
By Jove, she was utterly lovely.
Creamy skin and button nose. All that hair hanging loose, held back with a sheer bit of fabric. When she had come upon him at the church, still dressed in that impossibly short skirt, but now topped by a form-fitting tunic held together with a tiny row of pearl buttons—
Timothy swallowed and slowed down his breathing . . . for an entirely different reason.
He had shoved his coat into her hands as much to preserve his sanity as to provide her with warmth.
Unfortunately, the coat had not been entirely successful in its aim. It had swallowed her up, arms pushed through his long sleeves, delicate, small hands clutching the lapels, leaving her lovely eyes peeping out from the collar.
Making him wonder—with more curiosity than was wise—what it would be like to re-don the coat and, yet, still keep its arms around her like that. Hold her to his chest—
More forceful breathing ensued.
Best not to think of such things.
He would not trespass upon her hospitality long. Miss Fleury spared little love for him. And if she thought of him at all, it would be to wish him good riddance as she pushed him through the time portal, those tiny hands of hers pressed firmly into his spine. Sending him back to his nineteenth century existence. Never to be seen, heard or even thought of again. This strange interlude shortly forgotten.