Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 100423 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 502(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100423 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 502(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
“Thank you,” I reply, forcing a smile.
He steps back, but doesn't leave. Instead, he hovers, like he’s waiting for me to open the envelope and read it in front of him. At my questioning look, he explains.
“I’m to return with a response.”
“Oh,” I say. “Just a moment then.”
I retreat to the kitchen, the envelope heavy in my hand. I need the privacy to be able to read whatever it contains because I most definitely am not known for being able to control my expression, especially when it comes to responses like disgust or fury.
My stomach twists with worry and suspicion that it’s a lawsuit or some legal trap to kick me out of my property. I rip it open, and find his surprisingly handwritten note on thick, creamy paper, embossed with a fancy crest that screams old money.
My eyebrow shoots up as I scan the words. Wait, what? It’s an invitation to tea? For a moment, it almost feels like a joke, then it hits me that I really am in England, and tea time here must still be a thing like how it was in Jane Austen’s novels.
I also realize I don’t even know his name, but here it is: Hugh G. Montrose. I wonder what the G stands for, but what makes my eyebrows nearly shoot up to my hairline is realizing that he is a Duke.
“Right. So… he’s like royalty,” I mutter to myself.
To be honest, I’m not shocked, given his land, the manor, and the impressively gleaming horse. Plus, I have to also begrudgingly admit, he’s got that smug, lordly vibe, strutting in here yesterday like he owned my air.
The piece of new knowledge throws me off, hard though. Dukes are fairy-tale stuff, characters from dusty history books, not real, not in my Chicago world where the closest thing to royalty is a guy with a penthouse and a yacht.
Yet here he is, happily roaming around in the wild, pompous as hell, and he probably does have a penthouse and a yacht. It’s all so old-England, it’s almost surreal, but there’s a pull to it I can’t shake. I hate that my mind drifts, wondering how regal the rest of him actually is… yeah, that massive cock my brain conjured last night. Thick and large, ruining me. It’s got to be a lie, a trick my sleep-deprived head conjured up, but my thighs still remember, and I grip the card tighter, annoyed at myself. I glance down at the card again, weighing it. Every part of me says no—the farther I stay from him, the better for my sanity, for all of us.
Duke or no Duke, he’s still the rude jerk who barged in uninvited.
I’m not falling for this fancy-paper nonsense. With my decision made that I was to have nothing to do with him, it’s clear what I must do. Reject the invitation. I have a lot of work to do and I don’t want to. I head back out and find Bertrand standing still, his eyes focused on the apple tree.
“Tell him, no thank you,” I say firmly, handing it back. It feels a bit purposefully cold, so I soften my tone. “Tell him I appreciate the cordiality and invitation, but I’m currently incredibly busy.”
Bertrand Knox’s pale blue eyes widen with surprise. I’m pretty sure he’s never encountered anyone rejecting his master’s invitation to anything. Well then, I am honored to be the first. A little thrill runs through me at this tiny win, the elation sharp and sweet.
He nods, turns smartly on his heels, and heads off, disappearing down the lane.
Back inside, I decide it’s time to tackle the mess in the living room. I need a living space, so it doesn’t feel like I’m living in a junkyard. I dig out some black bin bags from under the sink—miracle they’re there—and get to work, sorting through Grandma’s chaos. Books with cracked spines, teacups chipped to hell, photos of stern old faces.
I start splitting it into keep or toss piles.
One hour later, I have filled nine Toss bags and one Keep bag. It’s not enough, not nearly, but it’s a start, and it’ll give me a reason to hit the village later, scope out some supplies. I’m not worried, not yet. I’m just going to stay focused, hands moving, clearing a path through this hoard. I’ll make this place mine, one dusty relic at a time.
Chapter
Eleven
HUGH
“Miss Hutton appreciates the cordiality of the invitation, but she will be unable to attend today,” Bertrand says diplomatically. His eyes betray nothing.
I frown. “Why not?”
He clears his throat. “I believe she is busy… with the cottage.”
She’s not too busy to come to tea. She just did that to annoy me. Thoroughly annoyed, I wave him away.
He leaves quickly, shutting the door behind him, and I stay in the office, trying to distract myself with work. I try to focus, flip a page, rearrange myself on my swivel chair, but it’s useless. Exasperation is clawing up my chest, turning into a slow, simmering anger.