Total pages in book: 127
Estimated words: 129951 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 650(@200wpm)___ 520(@250wpm)___ 433(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 129951 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 650(@200wpm)___ 520(@250wpm)___ 433(@300wpm)
Bartholomew panted his agreement.
I kept petting as I turned my head to look at Battle, who had again taken his seat. “Where did you hide him earlier?”
“I wasn’t hiding him,” he retorted.
I looked back at Bartholomew. “Did I witness your gloriousness and that’s what made me pass out?”
“No. He was in the gamekeeper’s cottage with Christian.”
I returned my attention to Battle.
He kept talking. “We went out to speak with him, and as that journey of about three hundred meters was rather taxing for my pup, he fell into a snooze whilst Christian and I conversed, so I left him there.”
Again, I went back to Bartholomew. “I totally understand. It’s hard being gorgeous, large and packed with muscle. It’s good to take frequent rests from lugging your amazingness around.”
Bartholomew licked his floppy chops, sending a string of drool curving around his short snout.
I laughed again.
Bartholomew pressed his head harder into my scratches.
“If we could do this so I can finally have a drink,” Battle prompted.
I straightened, catching his eyes then looking to the right where I’d spied a drinks cart earlier.
And there it sat right now.
Back to him and I raised my brows.
“With my sisters,” he added, lifting a leather portfolio and plopping it in front of me.
So we were going old-school, and this agreement was on paper, not electronic.
Interesting.
I tucked my bag in my lap and reached forward to take it.
Bartholomew realized pet time was over, but he didn’t return to Daddy.
Oh no.
He shifted his bulk against my knee, then, no other way to put it, he dissolved down my satin-covered shins with a hearty groan to rest his considerable mass on my feet.
This meant I was smiling when I opened the portfolio.
“Who’s Christian?” I asked as I scanned it.
“A botany PhD candidate from Oxford. He’s writing his dissertation, studying the physiology or genetics or some such of the plants in our gardens.”
This must be the sandy-haired handsome guy who’d been checking out Chastity as much as the roses earlier that day.
“Is he a member of the family or something?”
“No. He’s a PhD candidate who reached out to us to ask if he could study our gardens for his dissertation.”
With all the mystery surrounding The Downs, this surprised me.
“And you said yes?”
“Apparently,” he drawled, eloquently pointing out that was a stupid question.
I gestured to myself with the portfolio. “You seem to say yes a lot.”
“I’m not an ogre, Vivienne. Though, I might seem to be if I’m dealing with a stubborn American.”
Oh my God.
This guy.
“I’m not stubborn,” I retorted. “And being American has nothing to do with anything.”
“Allow me to amend. An argumentative American.”
Yet again I was opening my mouth to retort, then I bit it back, feeling the heat of annoyance sting my cheeks, and I forced my attention to the agreement.
“When she blushes, the freckles across her nose come out even stronger,” he said under his breath, but even if he was pretending to talk to himself, I was oh-so supposed to hear.
I gave up reading the agreement and snapped, “I wasn’t blushing. That was annoyance. And I’ll ask you to refrain from commenting on my person.”
“Does that mean you’d prefer me not to tell you I think that’s a rather fetching frock you’re wearing?”
Oh yeah.
Mm-hmm.
He was playing games.
“Yes,” I gritted.
“Then I won’t share I think that’s a rather fetching frock.”
Regardless I very much liked that he liked my dress, I glared at him.
He smirked at me.
Oh boy.
The man could smirk.
God.
He tipped his head to the portfolio. “The agreement?”
God!
It took me a second, I had to start over several times, but eventually I got into it.
Straightforward, no hidden agenda, no unnecessary legalese, no need to contact Natalie, my agent, to have a look at it.
Even so, I read it twice just to be ornery.
Finally, I requested, “Do you have a pen?”
He picked up a Mont Blanc from his desk and, in a belated effort at gallantry, rose from his chair so he could reach across the leather blotter so I wouldn’t have to before he offered it to me.
I took it, uncapped it, saw it was a fountain pen, which I refused to admit I thought was cool (though, it totally was cool, and I made a mental note to buy myself one on the hopeful day I got my next advance for another book), and I signed both copies.
I closed the portfolio, capped the pen and put both on his desk.
Taking his glasses off and dropping them to the blotter, he stood, stating, “I’ll ask Fitzgibbons to have your copy delivered to your room.”
I remained seated. “Thank you.”
He quirked his brows. “Shall we go?”
“I’ll meet you there later.”
Now he appeared suspicious. “You’re not coming?”
“I have one hundred and fifty pounds of dog on my feet.”
His head twitched and he moved around the desk to stare at the dog on my feet.