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)
Be still my freaking heart.
After our ride, we cleaned up and Battle took me into the village for a pub lunch and a half pint of cider.
The day was nice, and they were getting warmer, so we sat outside at a picnic table with hanging baskets and pots of England’s famous lush, bright flowers all around.
He knew people and nodded when he caught their eyes, or they stopped by the table for a moment to say hello, whereupon he always introduced me, and never failed to wedge in the words “bestselling author,” something I freaking loved, because he seemed almost as proud of that as me.
It was cool to see him out and about and being just Battle. He was too danged tall, built and gorgeous not to give off a certain presence, but it wasn’t a duke-ish one. And it was clear all of these people who he’d lived among all his life were as comfortable with him as he was with them.
In other words, they didn’t act like Henry Cavill stumbled into their pub for a bacon and brie sandwich, chips and a pint of Guiness.
When we returned, I took him to the studio to show him the photos I wanted to use (he approved). We then sat on the chaise so I could show him my outline on my laptop (he approved of that too).
After that, he asked if he could see Marie’s journal.
I dug it out for him.
He then lounged all sexy-hot duke on the chaise, one hand behind his head, the other holding up the diary, legs stretched out, ankles crossed, Gingerface hunkered down on his chest (Snowball, by the by, was on my desk (her favorite spot in the studio if the fire wasn’t going), Baby Blue hadn’t ventured out with us, but Bartholomew had somehow wedged himself under the desk and was resting his head on my feet).
Battle read while I went to the desk and did some online shopping.
Tempie had confirmed “spring formal” for Rally and Courtney’s wedding meant some springtime-esque formalwear…
“But, dearest, Battle is a man, so he missed part of it,” she stated. “The ceremony will be smart dress and hat. Everyone is changing for the evening reception to formalwear.”
So I needed two outfits.
And a hat.
Although shopping for a wedding hat was a fun online trip (I’d never purchased a hat that wasn’t a baseball cap), I got sidetracked in this endeavor (though, before that happened, I’d found two sexy nighties, which I bought).
What sidetracked me was doing a bit of side research on something that had been intriguing me since I learned of it.
I was in the middle of that when Battle ended our companionable silence.
“Christ,” he said. “This woman is tedious.” He rested the book on his thigh with his thumb in the page and looked at me. “Did you get through this whole thing?”
I nodded.
“Bloody hell. How?”
I smiled at him. “It’s my job.”
“I actually feel foul this woman’s blood runs through my veins. She was vapid to extremes, and a revoltingly slipshod mother.”
I grimaced, because I got him as well as agreed with him.
His eyes dropped to the laptop and came back to my face. “What are you doing?”
“Researching the disappearance of Lord Arthur Hughes-Davies, the viscount from Northumberland who went missing in 1946.”
His brows inched together. “Why are you doing that?”
I shrugged. “Because it’s a mystery.” Then I got into it. “Get this, the dude was not a good dude. He got three deferrals, all medical, all suspected to have happened because he paid people off so he didn’t have to serve during the war.”
“If he had that kind of pull, he could have done the same thing and found himself a safe officer’s commission where he didn’t leave English soil and not taken that kind of hit to his reputation,” Battle noted.
“He could. Another reason people thought he was an asshole. If you didn’t do your bit for the war effort back then, whatever that bit might be, you were persona non grata. And as far as I could tell, he didn’t do anything. It was like the war didn’t happen for him, and he worked hard to make it that way. But there were also rumors he cheated at cards, left his companions with bar and dinner tabs, maybe had fascist tendencies and was inappropriate with the ladies.”
“So did anyone give a shit he was gone?”
“The dowager countess, his mother, kicked up quite a fuss.”
“And no one ever found him?” he asked.
I shook my head. “Not hide nor hair. Nothing. He vanished. One day there, one day gone and never heard from again.”
His tone had changed, taken an edge, when he queried, “How was he inappropriate with the ladies?”
“The articles and entries paint him as a bit of a cad, he was single, however reading between the lines of such things being reported in 1946, it could be a lot worse than that.”