“It’s my middle name.”
“Mac Darcy Salazar?”
He nodded. “My mom likes Austen.” He bent his head and whispered in her ear, as though admitting to a perversion, “So do I.”
“Real men read Austen.” Another glass was in her hand, cloudy liquid with a slice of lemon and a sprig of mint—lemonade, and just in time. She was suddenly very thirsty. She took a long swallow. “Am I slurring my words?”
“Not at the moment. Let’s go eat.” He offered his arm.
She smiled at him and took her place at the table. Candlelight danced off silver and crystal, flattered pretty faces into beauty, emphasizing hollows and sculptures, the fall of a lock of hair. She rubbed the smooth linen of the tablecloth between her fingers. This isn’t real. This is a fantasy. In real life, I’d have been dead of an infected paper cut or toothless by thirty-five. But what a fantasy.
The door flew open and footmen, led by Rob, streamed into the room. And yes, Peter had managed to hire a matched set, equal in height, all good-looking and young. They placed large platters of food on the table—pies, roast meat, bowls of vegetables and some sort of jellylike dessert—the first remove of dinner.
“Aren’t they adorable?” the woman opposite Lou said. Sarah, the actor, she remembered. Sarah plucked at Rob’s sleeve. “I’m a vegetarian. What can I eat?”
From the expression on Sarah’s face, Lou thought she’d like to eat Rob, vegetarian or not.
“That’s a leek-and-cheese tart, ma’am, in front of you, and salad.”
“Mmm.” Lips pouted, Sarah cut into the pastry. “Would you like some, Lou?”
“Sure. Thanks. Have some asparagus.”
Mac stood to carve a joint of lamb. “Baa, baa,” he intoned. “Sure you don’t want some fresh meat, Sarah?”
“Oh, shut up, Mac.” Sarah tossed her head. “Carving, it’s such a guy thing. Lou, tell us about yourself. Who do you fancy?”
Who, not what. Sarah wasn’t offering her food, apparently. If Lou hadn’t seen Mac and Viv earlier in the day, she would have been quite shocked at Sarah’s lack of inhibitions.
“Ben’s quite good,” Sarah said. “I think he fancies Mac, though, don’t you, darling?”
Ben, who Lou could swear was examining his reflection in the shiny surface of his knife, gave a secretive smile.
“Sarah,” Chris bellowed from the other end of the table, “stop behaving like a procuress. You’ll give Lou entirely the wrong impression.”
“Or the right impression.” Mac flipped a slice of meat onto Lou’s plate. “Do you really think Austen’s characters fucked like bunnies, Lou? Give us the official academic reading.”
“Stop showing off, Mac,” said Vivian.
Lou noticed that Cathy, who sat next to her, was staring, entranced, at the bulge in Mac’s pants. “Hi, I’m Lou,” she said by way of distraction. “We didn’t get a chance to talk before dinner. I love your gown.”
“Thanks. Yours is nice, too.” Cathy paused. “We—me and Alan, my husband—we won this contest in the newspaper to come here. It’s a bit grand, isn’t it? And all these people waiting on us. It wasn’t what we expected. We thought it would be more like a hotel.”
“It’s not quite finished, yet,” Lou said. “It will be much more luxurious then, when all the en suite bathrooms are finished.”
“Oh, it’s horrible now,” Cathy said. “That shower is like the one we had in college, and there are all these bits of wiring sticking out of the walls. Did you know there’s only one proper bath in the house?”
“Use the bathhouse,” Mac said. “Get in there with your husband and scrub his back, honey. No hardship there. Or double up with me. I won’t complain.” His carving duties over, he sat and helped himself to asparagus.
“I don’t think it’s hygienic,” Cathy said primly. “You’re swimming around in that nasty water that smells like rotten eggs that everyone else has been in.”
“Are you going to come back at Christmas for the grand opening?” Lou asked. “Everything will be gorgeous then. You’ll love it.”
“Oh, no.” She looked down the table to where her husband was deep in conversation with Peter. “Alan thinks we should, but it’s so expensive. He gets on ever so well with Peter and Chris.”
Lou heard the uncertainty in her voice and noticed that Peter had his hand over Alan’s on the table. Getting on a bit too well, she thought. She was surprised at Peter’s behavior. Of the two, it was solid, dependable Peter who she would have thought least likely to stray. Chris, on the other hand, flirted with anyone—men, women—it was part of his personality, to be charming and entertaining.
“You could always come and use the bath in the gatehouse,” Vivian said to Cathy in a seductive purr. “I’d love to have you.”
“Hands off, Viv,” Mac said. “She’s a married woman, you home wrecker.”
Cathy gave him a quick, grateful glance. She stared at a dish on the table, a pale, molded creation, garnished with watercress. “What’s this—ice cream?”
Lou tasted it, sweet and gritty on her tongue, and nodded. “Nice. Pistachio, I think, with a bit of lemon. They liked to mix sweet and savory then in each remove—that’s what they called the courses. Sorry, I’m reverting to being a teacher. Try it.”
Cathy dipped her spoon into it and took a tentative taste. And another. “Oh. Oh, my God, that’s so good.”
Cathy’s face, which Lou had thought too sharp and pointed to be really pretty, softened to a voluptuous dreaminess as her pointed tongue flicked across the surface of the spoon. Across the table, Mac fell silent and watched her.
Lou wondered exactly what was going on in those knit pants.
Even Rob, standing at the sideboard, had forgotten his servant persona enough to stare at Cathy with open interest.
The moment was broken. Chris, a conspiratorial smile on his face, grasped a small silver bell that stood by his plate. “Rob, dear,” he sang out. “Second remove, I think.”
CHAPTER FOUR
Peter
He balanced his laptop on his knees and ran over the schedule for the next day. The urge to lay the laptop aside and fall into sleep was overwhelming, but he knew that if he neglected this ritual, his night would be haunted by dreams of things left undone, domestic catastrophes and scheduling nightmares.
The shower turned off and Chris entered, shaking his wet hair. He wore his blue pajama bottoms, the ones Peter liked, low on his hips. He patted his face dry and yawned. “You old fussbudget.”
“All done.” Peter clicked out and laid the laptop on the bedside table. He drew back the bedclothes.
“Like an old married couple,” Chris commented. He leaned to kiss Peter. “Uh-oh, what’s up, lover boy?”
He hadn’t even realized he’d turned his face aside to receive the kiss chastely on the cheek. “Nothing. I’m tired. Sorry. Rain check?”
“Okay.” Chris settled into bed beside him, sweetly scented with shampoo and soap, his skin slightly damp. “Not that tired, I see.” He grasped Peter’s semi-erect cock and gave it a quick squeeze. “Inspired by the lovely Alan?”
“Not my type.”
“Sure. Playing genial host, were we?” Chris’s voice was light, but Peter caught an undercurrent of something—alarm? Jealousy?
“Honey,” he said carefully, “we’re both tired. Let’s not say anything we’ll regret, okay? Let not the sun go down on our anger and all that good stuff. I was flirting, yeah
. He’s a tad bi-curious, that’s all.”
Chris slid down in the bed, hands behind his head. “It’s not like you.”
“But it’s like you.” Immediately after the words were out of Peter’s mouth, he regretted them.
“Tit for tat?”
“Something like that.” He slid down in the bed. “Honey, you flirt. You flirt with everyone. I don’t. Not usually. So when I do, you notice.”
“Okay, okay.” Chris turned and fumbled with the button at Peter’s pajamas.
He really wasn’t in the mood but he recognized it as a gesture of reconciliation, if not desire. “You don’t have to,” he said, hand on Chris’s wrist.
“Sure. Fine.” Chris released him and turned over, the moment lost, and stretched to switch off the bedside lamp.
“I love you,” Peter said, a little hesitantly, a little too late, into the darkness.
There was no reply.
* * *
Lou
“I CAN’T REMEMBER MY ROOM,” she said to the footman, the good-looking one. They were all good-looking. And she could remember her room, its quiet elegance, the handsome bed, the soft cooing of doves and the scattered shadow from the trees outside. What she couldn’t remember was how to get back to it. “Where it is,” she amended.
“There’s tea, ma’am, in the drawing room.”
“No, too jet-lagged. Too…drunk,” she finished successfully. “I need to go to bed. But I don’t know…”
“It’s okay, I can help you,” said the Georgian footman, a phrase that made her giggle. So wrong, so right.
“How sweet.” She linked her hand through his bent arm and kept going and going, and he straightened her up, supporting her. Rob, she thought his name was. “I don’t normally do this.”
“Of course not, ma’am. Up the stairs, now.”
She stopped, suddenly. “Wait. My gown.” She grabbed a handful of fabric to free her feet.
“You okay, Lou?”
With some difficulty, she turned, grabbing the banister for support with one hand and Rob the footman with the other.
“Mr. Darcy!”
“You’re shit-faced,” Mac said.
“In my cups. It’s mostly jet lag.”
“Oh, sure.” He took a step up the stairs. “I’ll follow behind, make sure she doesn’t fall backward.”
“I really hate it when people refer to me in the third person. You’re not going to grab my ass, are you, Darcy?”
“Frankly, I’m shocked.” He put a hand on her ass and shoved. “Hurry up. You’re more likely to fall if you go slow.”
“It’s a novel experience, being escorted upstairs by two gentlemen,” she commented.
“I’m glad to hear it,” Mac said. “Okay, top of the stairs. Try to walk straight.”
Down a corridor, a turn, dim lights, another turn. “I remember now,” she said, lurching to a stop.
“No, ma’am, not this one,” Rob said. “A few more steps, and here we are.”
He opened a door.
“I can take it from here,” Mac said, taking Lou’s arm.
Rob turned away, with a muttered, “Good night.”
“Take what from here?” She propped herself up against the door frame. Perfectly vertical. Well, maybe not so vertical as she began a slow, relaxed slide against the polished wood.
“Getting you to bed.”
“Don’t for one moment think you’ll get lucky. I can manage. Front-lacing stays. Very sensible.”
“Oh, yeah?” He pushed her forward into the room.
Giggling, she landed on the bed, perched, not sprawling.
He went to the corner of the room.
“What are you doing?”
“Getting you some water. You’ll have a hell of a hangover tomorrow if you don’t hydrate.”
“Crapulous. Bottle bitten.” She took the glass from him. “All of it?”
“Yeah. Try not to puke.”
Three glasses of water later, she found herself lying on her back on the bed, contemplating the tester. “Thanks, Mac. I’ll be fine now.”
He lifted her foot and unlaced her leather slipper, then the other, standing between her spread knees.
She sighed.
“What’s wrong?” He bent and swiped at the side of her face, at the hot, wet tears that spilled from her eyes without warning.
“This could be so damn sexy.” She sniffed. “I thought I’d find him here, but now I’m too drunk.”
“Not tonight, gorgeous. I don’t know why that makes you cry, but heck, you’re drunk as a skunk. Okay.” His hands hovered at her neckline. “Is there some sort of pin arrangement here?”
“No.” She wiped her face messily and stood, hardly swaying at all. “Ties at the back. You called me ‘gorgeous.’”
“Okay, slight exaggeration. Turn around.” She did so, and felt the give and slide as he pulled the two ties undone, and her gown dropped to the floor. She giggled and reached for the drawstring of the petticoat, which followed the gown onto the floor in a soft rush, and then she fumbled at the front lacing of her stays.
He backed away, hands held out. “I’m done.”
“You are?” She wasn’t sure if she should be relieved or insulted. “You’re a kind man, Mr. Darcy.”
“Kind? I just undressed you. Your ankles are driving me wild with lust. If you weren’t so damned drunk, my dishonorable intentions would be a lot clearer. Get some sleep. ’Night, honey.” He bent and gave her a quick, swift kiss on the forehead as her stays loosened and fell from her hands. “Sleep tight.”
Oh, great. He was speaking to her as though she was a toddler. But didn’t being drunk reduce you to some sort of idiot infantile state anyway? She watched the door close behind him and tottered in her shift to the bathroom. Her eyes looked huge and shadowed in the dim light—the only lighting was from those cunning fake candles that flickered like the real thing. Much better for the infrastructure, no staining of paint, no guests falling drunkenly asleep and setting themselves on fire.
She dropped her shift on the floor and stumbled naked into bed.
Then it hit her. “Heck, Julian, I could have ended my celibacy with a threesome if I’d played my cards right. What a missed opportunity.” The cool sheets stroked her body, caressed her. “And where are you? Still refusing to haunt me?”
* * *
“THEY’VE GONE RIDING, MA’AM.” The maid, whose name she couldn’t remember, fussed around with last night’s gown, which Mac, presumably, had folded neatly over a chair. Lou couldn’t remember much, only that she’d probably done or said something embarrassing, and that doubtless shameful memories would eventually crowd back. She groaned and covered her face with her hands.
“I’d like to have gone riding. If I wasn’t hungover.”
Di, that was her name, giggled. “We had bets on downstairs.”
“On what?”
“Who’d be most pissed.” Ah, yes, pissed for drunk; the beauties of the English language. “I bet on you but Cathy—Mrs. Saunders—she was pretty far gone, too. I think she was upset with Mr. Saunders ignoring her.” She passed Lou a dressing gown.
“I don’t think this is historically correct,” Lou said, pushing her arms through the sleeves.
“You don’t want to get cold,” Di said diplomatically. “What would you like to wear?”
“I don’t know. You choose.” Lou, decently clad and propped up on the pillows, watched as Di smoothe
d fabric and imagined herself two centuries back. She absolutely wouldn’t have let two gentlemen—or strictly speaking, one gentleman and one servant—see her in such a shocking state of drunkenness, and the shame of awakening knowing that at least one of them had helped her off with her clothes would have been overwhelming. As it was, she had a slight headache, but otherwise an overall sensation of relaxation. Soon she would get up and test the primitive shower, a cheap plastic contraption in one corner of the bathroom, and in proper Georgian fashion, take the air in the garden. She assured Di she didn’t need help dressing, and the young woman bobbed a curtsy and left with her basket of laundry.
* * *
ONLY THE OCCASIONAL DRONE OF an airplane overhead indicated that two centuries had passed. The garden, Lou knew, had been carefully researched and planned and already the flower beds, with the straggly equivalents of familiar modern plants, were beginning to fill out. There was even a wilderness area of the sort in which Lady Catherine de Bourgh cross-questioned Lizzy Bennet, a shrubbery carefully planted to give an illusion of wildness, and the gleam of a building, a summerhouse, farther inside.
Footsteps, strong and fast, crunched on the gravel behind her.
“Good morning, Mr. Darcy,” she said before she could stop herself.
His pace quickened and he came to her side. “You’re clairvoyant, as well as being a brilliant scholar, Mrs. Connolly?”
“Neither. You can call me Lou if you like.”
“Not here,” he said. He smelled of sweat and horse and leather, and carried a riding whip. She wondered idly if he planned to smack anyone with it. “Here and now, you’re Mrs. Connolly.”
“I guess so. How was your ride?”
“I seem to be getting better. I don’t feel I have to soak my ass for hours after. Our riding master said I was a natural. I have the thighs for it.” He winked. “You ride pretty well, don’t you?”
“Not real well and hardly at all sidesaddle.”
He seemed quite content strolling at her side, tapping the riding whip against his leather boots. “You’re feeling okay?”
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