by Nichole Van
It was hard to say.
The hedgerows of the narrow country road passed at a blur. A light rain had started, spotting the windshield. Timothy accelerated around a turn, throwing her against the passenger door.
“I should have made you do more student driver hours. You are hopelessly illegal. And probably going to get us both killed.”
He sniffed, shifted down into second gear and peeled around a Fiat. “I assure you, Miss Fleury, after driving a high-spirited pair of thoroughbreds pulling my high-perch phaeton at top speed through the chaos that is nineteenth century London traffic, sitting comfortably behind the wheel of a non-sentient, un-opinionated machine on a quiet country road is child’s play.”
The car growled aggressively as it moved back into its lane, obviously not agreeing with his lordship’s assessment of un-opinionated.
“Wait. So you don’t shave or dress yourself, but you do drive your own carriage? That makes no sense.”
“Would a modern prince permit a servant to drive one of his expensive sports cars?”
“Touché.”
“No sporting gentleman alive would allow a mere groom to handle his prime cattle. ‘Tis a matter of pride and honor, Miss Fleury.”
“Both of which we know you have in spades.”
He merely shrugged in acknowledgment.
She shook her head as Timothy effortlessly steered the car around a double-parked delivery van (with only inches to spare) and clamped harder on her I-need-to-brake-right-now right foot. Sitting in the passenger seat, the side where she normally drove a car, didn’t help. The rain took up a steady patter against the windows.
“I thought you were going to call me Jasmine from now on.”
“I told you. I like Miss Fleury. Using the names interchangeably does not bother me. And seeing how I was told to just be myself . . . ”
He had not just said that.
She stared at his profile. His face utterly impassive. As usual.
“You’re teasing me. Like actually, full-on teasing. Admit it.”
Something flashed across his cheek. That same something she had noticed off and on for weeks now.
Surely she wasn’t seeing—
No. It couldn’t be—
“Stop the car! Stop it right now!”
With a glance of alarm, he veered off the road, lurching to a halt in front of a farmer’s gate.
“Whatever is the matter?” He looked around and then fixed her with a wide-eyed gaze.
Jasmine was frozen in her seat. Staring at him.
“Do this,” she said, stretching her lips wide, baring her teeth.
He sat back, alarm deepening.
“Why should I wish to look like a rabid dog?”
“Just do it.”
“Is this some sort of odd twenty-first century driving game? Where you see an animal and then act out—”
“Please.” She batted her eyelashes.
With a long-suffering sigh, he gritted his teeth, pulling his mouth wide.
No. Freaking. Way.
She gasped, hand to her mouth.
“You. Have. Dimples.”
He flinched. Causing said dimples to disappear.
“Oh my word! Dimplesdimplesdimplesdimplesdimpl—”
“Jasmine!” He looked about, as an adorable flush crept up his face. Refusing to meet her eyes.
She was so beyond caring.
“You have dimples.” She clasped her hands under her chin. “Like deep, pinch-your-cheeks-they’re-so-cute dimples!”
He took in a deep breath. “I fail to see how the presence of dimples—”
“Do it again. I want to see them again.”
Yep. There was The Look, full-force. Did he not know she was beyond caring?
“Miss Fleury—”
“C’mon. Pleeeease.” She tilted her head and fluttered her eyelashes enough to make a southern belle proud. “Pretty, pretty, pretty pleeeeeeeease.”
He sighed, closed his eyes and then bared his teeth again. And there they were, one in each cheek. Deep and perfectly round.
Dimples.
“Oh, they’re just so cute.” She cooed and touched her right hand to his face, rubbing her thumb over said dimples.
They instantly vanished.
Stubborn man. Denying her the soul-satisfying pleasure of dimples.
He merely stared at her, gray eyes pensive. And then slowly lifted his own hand, retrieving hers from his face. Wrapping her hand in his broad palm and ever-so-carefully dragging her fingers downward. Brushing them across his lips in the process, before settling their hands on the center console.
Never once breaking eye contact with her.
The entire motion thoroughly goosebump-inducing.
He didn’t let go of her hand.
Which was actually the nicest part, in the end. The simple act of having his warm strong fingers engulfing hers should not have sent tingles chasing her spine . . . but there she was.
Sheesh. Talk about swoon-worthy.
She felt like fanning herself and doing her best Scarlett O’Hara impression:
I do declare, my lord, but you have set my poor little heart aflutter . . .
“You need to smile.” She gave him a textbook example. “Then we could all enjoy your dimples more often. It’s a tragedy to keep them hidden from the world.”
“I was raised to obey rule number twenty-three and its corollary, rule number twenty-nine,” was all he said.
A gentleman suppresses undue emotion, whether of disappointment, of mortification, of laughter, of anger, etc.
A gentleman will refrain from all displays of levity.
“I hate all those rules that forced you to not show emotion . . . it’s the most unhealthy, emotionally-stunted, unnatural way—”
She stopped herself mid-rant. Logic. The man needed logic, not raving. Emotional logic.
Which should have been a complete oxymoron, really, but it just wasn’t when talking with Timothy Linwood.
She tried again. “Showing your emotions is normal. I admit, you have made exceptional progress with accepting certain aspects of this century, like machines. But now it’s time to move on to emotions.”
“I am perfectly capable of expressing emotions.”
She sat back, waiting expectantly.
He remained impassive before her. Doing his normal I-am-a-statue impression.
“Soooooo, is this you expressing emotions? Because, if so, I’m not getting much of a read on them . . .”
Still nothing. Man, it was uncanny how still he could sit. If he ever needed a career change, he could hire out as one of those palace guard guys who couldn’t move a muscle while tourists did all sorts of things to distract them—
“A palace guard?”
She closed her eyes, giving her head a shake. “Timothy, expressing emotions is normal. It’s healthy. Laughter is the best medicine and all that.”
Now it was his turn to raise a questioning eyebrow.
“Laughter is the best medicine? That is an unexpected phrase.”
“It means that if you want to stay healthy, you need to laugh. You don’t want to be sick, do you?”
He shrugged, face back to its normal impassive mask.
“I have stayed well up until now. My bodily humors rarely fall out of balance.”
Okaaaay. That was odd.
But she lost whatever else she was going to say. His thumb started rubbing across the back of her hand, causing her stomach to do this fluttery-gooey thing.
He was still trying to distract her. And it was working, drat him, slowly dissolving her girly insides to mush. She gave herself a mental shake.
“Seriously. Let’s practice.” She settled into her soft leather seat. Looked at him. Expectantly.
“I can hardly be expected to smile when there is nothing humorous to induce me.”
Mmmmmm. Now he was just being difficult.
“Fine. Allow me to help you.” She pursed her lips. His thumb was still going in
lazy circles. And he had upped the ante by moving up to the sensitive inside of her wrist. The man had no mercy. “Did you hear about the guy whose whole left side was cut off? He's all right now.”
She winked at him. Waggled her eyebrows.
He stilled, thumb pausing. Raised an eyebrow.
And then resumed his gentle exploration of her hand.
Nothing. She got nothing.
“C’mon. That was hilarious.”
He shook his head. Every line of his body communicating disappointment.
“As I said, rule number two hundred and forty-three specifies—”
“I know, I know. Puns aren’t punny. But where’s the fun in that?”
“Anyone who would consider puns a source of amusement clearly has a penchant toward self-torture—”
“Not even. Puns can totally be hilarious. I’ll prove it.”
He shook his head at her and then lifted her hand to his lips. Planting a gentle kiss on her knuckles. Lips so very soft, his breath warm and lingering.
Oh dear.
Cue heart-fluttering and hand-fanning again.
He was clearly trying to change the subject. She narrowed her eyes, letting him know that she was on to his game.
A dimple flashed and his eyes smile-twinkled.
It was a start.
He brushed her fingers with his thumb, letting her know he was on to her too, and then slowly released her hand. Sliding his hand away inch by inch, skimming his fingers from her wrist to her fingertips.
Wow. Was this one of those gentleman things too? How to seduce a lady by only touching her hand?
Her right hand certainly thought so. It instantly felt cold and lonely. Traitorous appendage. She was totally disowning it. Going all left from now on.
Timothy shifted the car back into gear and, with a confident glance into his rear view mirror, pulled onto the road. Face back to his standard cut-marble-impassive.
He was going to be a tough customer.
“What is the difference between ignorance and apathy?” She tried again.
He shifted the car and said, “I do not know, and I do not care.”
Drat. He was good.
And still nothing.
She would crack him.
She sat silent, trying to think of more bad pun jokes. Rain drummed against the car. How did that one go about a frayed knot in a bar?
No. She needed to think of puns that were more his milieu. Though she would probably need help from Google.
She thought for a moment. Snapped her fingers.
“My tailor is happy to make a pair of pants for me, or at least . . . sew it seams.” She hit him with her brightest smile.
The dratted man didn’t so much as flinch.
Just a glance out of the corner of his eye and that raised eyebrow. Though it was a decidedly challenging eyebrow.
This was so on.
“So what is your plan once we reach Caerleon?” his smooth voice asked.
“You’re trying to change the topic.”
“Not at all. Merely making polite conversation.”
“You’re running scared. Afraid I will make you—gasp—smile.”
“Not in the slightest—”
“Brock.” She tucked her hands into her ribs and flapped her elbows. “Brockbrockbrockbrock-bacock!”
The eyebrow went a fraction of an inch higher.
“Is this more of your driving game? I do not, as a general rule, find chicken impressions humorous—”
If Timothy thought that was going to be enough to change the topic—
“Is that one of the rules too?” she asked. “A gentleman of distinction will never laugh at impersonations of poultry.” She mimicked his haughty aristocratic drawl.
Again. Nothing.
“You’re killing me here. Do you find anything funny?”
He took a too-fast corner.
“I naturally find certain events humorous.”
A long pause as she listened to the rain swish on the road, waiting for him to finish his thought.
He didn’t.
Letting the silence imply that he had yet to find her humorous.
Oh, yeah. This was soooooo on.
She would crack him. Like . . . like a coconut with a machete.
Like a firecracker in a tin can—
No, wait. That just made a cracking noise . . . the can didn’t necessarily bust apart. Though if you put enough firecrackers in and lit them with a long fuse, it might—
Where was she?
“You were going to crack me. How about like an egg? It would be a more straight forward simile—”
Grrrrrr.
She pointed a finger at him. “This is so not over, mister.”
His glanced at her, that dimple flashing again. Eyes dancing. But no smile.
He was definitely toying with her. Teasing.
This was so going to be a smack-down—
She was totally going to scour the internet for the funniest puns ever. The man wouldn’t know what hit him.
Timothy came to a t-stop and turned right. The BMW’s navigation noted they were seven miles from Caerleon.
“Again, what do you hope to find at Caerleon?” He nudged his chin toward the GPS panel in the dash. “I think your mural is coming along spendidly.”
She shot him her best I-know-you’re-just-trying-to-distract me look.
He returned with a signature I-could-care-less flick of his eyes.
Fine. She could bide her time. She would go along and then take him down when he least expected it.
“It is one of the rumored sites of Camelot. I’m just hoping to get some sketching done. Backgrounds for my King Arthur mural,” she said.
He nodded and drove in silence for a few moments, rain drumming hypnotically.
And then he leaned toward her, as if imparting something profound and secretive.
“Did you know that the roundest knight in King Arthur’s court was Sir Cumference?”
Jasmine blinked. All the air leaving her in a startled laughing gasp. Embarrassingly loud and far too giggly.
Timothy did not. Laugh, that is.
But his eyes definitely twinkled again. And those dimples flashed.
And she spent the rest of the afternoon wondering if there hadn’t been a wink in the mix too.
Chapter 19
A country road
Rural Wales
April 20, 2015
Jasmine liked his dimples.
If talking about something was an indication of personal preference. Which the scientist in Timothy was inclined to believe it was.
She had mentioned them seventeen times over the last few days. Three references occurring just this morning.
It was . . . interesting.
Others rarely realized he had dimples. His father had abhorred them, considered them a flaw in his breeding. Yet another reason his sire had disliked seeing Timothy smile.
Their jaunt to Caerleon had not been particularly successful. Rain had set in with a vengeance by the time they reached their destination, greatly reducing visibility. Jasmine had not been able to sketch anything helpful. Her words.
Though the trip had allowed Timothy to expand his list of likes:
Driving in the rain with Jasmine.
Holding Jasmine’s hand.
Teasing Jasmine.
There was definitely a theme.
Jasmine was creeping her way into more than just his lists. She had taken up residence in his brain, crowding his other worries about the viscountcy’s finances, about Miss Heartstone, about returning to his own century, about the disturbing reality of his estate becoming a merchant conglomerate.
Granted, between his obsessive study of mechanical engineering, delight in cleaning and organization, and rejection of The Rules, his frantic desperation to return home had faded.
Or maybe, all of that was just Jasmine too. Spending time with her, hearing her giggly laugh, her crazy ideas. Whatever the cause, he checked the
portal only twice a day, morning and night.
He wasn’t sure if that was progress.
After several days of rain, they were driving once more. The weather forecast called for overcast skies with only a twenty percent chance of rain, so Jasmine wanted to try Wales again. Specifically, Caerphilly Castle.
Modern technology astounded him. How could scientists know what the weather would be hours and days into the future? And yet, the forecasts were remarkably accurate.
Timothy shifted down and steered the car onto a connecting byway. The machine was another absolute marvel. Turning what would have been a journey of several days over rough country into a pleasant two-hour drive, listening to Jasmine chatter along the way. The woman did like to talk. Which was just fine by Timothy, as he adored the sound of her voice.
“Like you’ve mentioned before, the real King Arthur was probably a ruler of the Britons who lived around the beginning of the 6th century, right after the collapse of the Roman Empire,” she said from the seat beside him.
She was currently staring at her phone. She had been peppering him with information about the various Arthurian legends for the last hour while eating candy from a bag labeled Gummy Teeth and Lips.
“So there is no definitive evidence that Arthur was an actual historical figure. He was probably an amalgam of several different men. Prime candidates for Arthur are a Roman-British leader named Aurelius Ambrosius who shows up in later records. There is another ruler named Riothamus from the same era. He is one of the few people they have actual contemporary evidence for. He is mentioned in a couple of Roman letters.”
She paused, reading. Popped more candy into her mouth.
“Interesting,” she continued. “There is some speculation that this Ambrosius guy and Riothamus could be one and the same person as they lived at the same time. I guess Riothamus is more a title than a name and could be translated as something like ‘supreme ruler of the Britons.’ This area of southern Wales was actually a center of their power, though the kingdom may have stretched through western Britain and even into Brittany in northern France.”
Ah. At last something with which he was vaguely familiar. “The languages are all similar—Welsh, Cornish, Breton. They are thought to all derive from the same original ancient source.”
“The original mother tongue of the ancient Britons?”