Total pages in book: 127
Estimated words: 127368 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 637(@200wpm)___ 509(@250wpm)___ 425(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 127368 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 637(@200wpm)___ 509(@250wpm)___ 425(@300wpm)
“Go,” she urged. “Will I see you again tonight?”
“I don’t know, maybe not. Ian and I are having dinner in the village.”
“Have fun,” she said apathetically, but at the same time, oddly, it seemed earnest.
“I will. While I’m gone, don’t be too hard on yourself.”
“I’ll try.”
I could tell she’d fail, but maybe a little self-pity would do some good.
At least it seemed to be making some inroads already.
I pulled her into my arms and gave her a hug.
I then kissed her cheek and left the room.
Ian was waiting for me in the foyer, wearing his camel coat over his cardigan, a pine-colored scarf tucked through a half-fold around his neck. He was holding my duffle and purse.
Testimony to how hot he was, a man waiting for a woman while holding her purse, and he looked fabulous doing it.
But his attention wasn’t on me as I approached.
It was down the hall from where I’d come.
When I arrived at him, he simply looked down at me and raised his brows.
And jeez.
We were here, already, because he didn’t have to say the words and I knew what he was asking.
“Portia and I had a chat. I’ll tell you on the way to the village.”
He nodded and handed me my bag, then shook out my coat to help me put it on.
It was only then I noticed he also had my scarf and gloves.
Yeesh.
This man.
No hand holding as he walked me down to his Jag, which was waiting for us at the foot of the steps. No. He slung his arm around my shoulders, and I slid mine along his waist.
He held the car door open for me.
With the sun of the first cloudless day we’d had since arriving glinting against British racing green, the sleek car purred down the drive of Duncroft on its errand of taking us to the village.
And I wasn’t paying attention.
But Ian and I took off on our first date when it was exactly three oh three.
Twenty-Five
THE VILLAGE
The village, called Dunmorton, was picture perfect.
I shouldn’t have been surprised.
It could only be its remoteness that meant it wasn’t on the tourist track. It was just that postcard pretty, with buildings made of the stone that partially fashioned Duncroft, tight alleys of mews that spoke of modernization with respect to a different era, pretty flowerboxes and hanging planters that, even in late October, were a profusion of health and vibrant color.
There was a quaint church with the requisite graveyard surrounding it gracing the swell of a knoll. The freestanding schoolhouse was adorable. And there was a triangular park in a fork in the road, which was tiny but had huge trees that shaded the benches underneath.
And there was a lot more to it than I expected.
It was bigger, almost a town (but not quite), and it was clear the locals patronized it, and it was an attraction for the farther flung, but still local.
Along with the Italian place, the Indian restaurant, the Chinese takeaway and the chippie, there was a pretty tearoom, a bustling pharmacy, a florist with tubs of blooms outside, a fresh veg stall with crates of bright vegetables, and a pub with picnic tables and a bowling green at the back.
Ian and I walked all along its lanes, stopping for coffee and a custard slice at the tearoom (both very good), wandering the cemetery (he showed me the Alcott section, it was highly populated and had the most impressive tombstones). And the spag bol I had at Luigi’s was exemplary.
We left there and huddled close in the cold night air as Ian walked me to the pub at the other end.
And now we were at a booth in the back, seated beside each other, facing the quite lively pub (for a Tuesday evening), Ian with an expertly pulled pint of Guinness and me with my half pint of cider.
What I was also experiencing was something curious. Something that, even as long as I’d been living in England, was something I’d never quite understand as an American.
The class structure ingrained in those who were born to this sceptered isle.
The lord of the local manor was in attendance. And as I sat there I realized, all afternoon and evening, from passersby on the streets, to staff at Luigi’s, to the assiduously unobtrusive observing of us here in the pub, Ian commanded a deference that had nothing to do with his looks or manner or money, and everything to do with the blood he’d been born with.
I wanted to say I was immune to the appeal of it, that one should always live their lives earning that kind of respect, rather than happening into it by chance of birth.
But I couldn’t say that.
Although there was every possible plotline available to readers of romance novels, when something like this was on offer, the vast majority of them had the, yes, plucky heroine stealing the heart of the duke, or earl, or baron, not the man who pulls a good pint of Guinness at the local pub.