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)
He arranged for the original lamp, pristine and exquisite, far surpassing the knockoff that had taken her fancy. I assumed she would appreciate the upgrade. Every woman I know would have.
A faint prickle rises up from the base of my neck. Did I read her wrong? The lamp was meant to please her, perhaps to soften the edges of our conflict. Yet here she is, offended and storming the manor, demanding an audience. I cannot help but wonder what actual effect my gift has had—anger, suspicion? Buried deep inside me is naked eagerness to see her under any circumstances, just to witness those eyes again, flashing with defiance or something else entirely.
Stripping the gloves from my hands, I turn to Mrs. O’Brien, who is waiting patiently, her gaze steady. “Should I show Miss Hutton into the drawing room, m’Lord?”
“No, show her to the orangery,” I instruct, my mind already racing ahead. “Offer her tea. And cakes. Lots of it. I will join her shortly.”
“Very good, m’Lord,” she replies smoothly, and leaves, her footsteps purposeful.
“Let’s stop here today,” I tell my trainer.
He looks at his watch and nods.
I move quickly, aware that delay will be interpreted as disrespect and will be held against me. I stride through the empty corridors, my heart beating faster than it should, not from the workout but from the thought of her waiting for me.
The shower is brief but thorough, hot water sluicing over my skin, washing away sweat and tension, though not the restless energy coiling in my chest. I scrub briskly, the soap’s cedar scent sharp. So fucking stubborn. I step out, towel around my waist, and dress quickly in oat-colored linen trousers and a crisp white shirt. I’m just a man meeting his neighbor.
I run a comb through my hair and realize I cannot recall ever taking this much time on my appearance. And yet, I’m doing it for someone who has ignored every gesture I have made. She has slipped under my skin despite my efforts to keep her at arm’s length. I’m supposed to be seducing her and not the other way around. The realization annoys me, a sharp sting of self-awareness, and I frown at my reflection. Maybe I really am too idle here. It could explain why I am chasing what should be just a basic thrill.
I leave the bedroom, the manor’s quiet wrapping around me. The staircase’s polished banister is smooth under my hand as I descend, my pulse a steady drumbeat urging me forward. The orangery awaits, its glass walls promising light and warmth, and within them, a furious Lauren Hutton.
Chapter
Seventeen
LAUREN
This was a bad idea.
Storming here, full of rage. It got me through the manor’s giant gates and past those heavy carved doors, but now? I’m soaked in sweat, like someone dumped cold water on me, and my fire’s fading fast. The housekeeper who introduced herself as Mrs. O’Brien was so coldly formal in a completely un-American way that I almost completely forgot why I came here in the first place.
That I came here to cause trouble!
She gestured me into the foyer, a lofty cavern of gleaming marble floors inlaid with black and gold chevrons, stretching toward a staircase that spiraled up, its balustrade carved with ivy and roses, each glowing curl so intricate and delicate I wanted to touch it. The creamy plaster of the walls was molded into panels of scrolling vines, and up above hung a massive chandelier, its crystals winking like they were alive.
“Please wait here. I’ll let his Lordship know you’re here,’ she said stiffly, and walked away, her back ramrod straight with silent disapproval.
Alone, I wonder where the butler is. Maybe it’s his day off or he’s gone into the village. Five minutes later, my eyes are still darting around the grand ceiling, ribbed with gothic arches, painted in faded blues and golds, like some cathedral. The sheer grandeur of it makes my cottage feel like a shed. I hear footsteps, and it is Mrs. O’Brien. She lifts her chin.
“If you’d like to come with me, Miss Hutton.”
I follow Mrs. O’Brien’s silent back as she turns left into a corridor. Under my shoes, the dark oak polished to a mirror shine is engaged in a herringbone fox trot. On the walls are a kaleidoscope of portraits featuring indistinguishable pale faces above ruffled collars.
We stop, she opens a glass door, and ushers me into a large conservatory full of greenery. My breath catches as sunlight floods my vision, pouring through walls of leaded glass. The diamond shaped panes at the top bend the light into soft rainbows across the flagstone floor. I pause, eyes wide, taking it in. The room feels like a jewel box, airy yet ancient. Its ceiling is a lattice of white-painted metal. The walls are mostly glass, but the stone areas are carved with swirling ferns and tiny birds, centuries old but still sharp. Wicker chairs with cushions striped in sage and cream sit among the rich riot of exotic flowering plants.