I couldn’t recall precisely where his Scotland estate was—Will had managed that transition—but a flight to Gretna Green was usually a nearly four-day endeavor. I’d had one desperate client manage it in two, but that was with a proper carriage, with proper coachmen, and proper horses. In this one… perhaps five days to Scotland and maybe another day to His Grace’s estate.
Five or six days with an erection could not possibly be healthful.
It had to be that damned peach frock. She couldn’t have packed one of her thousand others, all silky and impractical,ethereal. No, it was that simple cotton one that got me into this mess in the first place.
I’d known Lady Davina for years. And save that one instance at Decker’s, she had merely been the silly, frivolous sister of a duke. Ornate and unapproachable, she wore the latest fashions made of fabrics that would crumble to dust if someone looked at them wrong. I’d known she was beautiful—a person would have to be blind to miss it—but it was the beauty found in paintings of deities and queens. It was a beauty that could be seen but not known.
And then, at the worst time of my life, she waltzed into Hart and Summers, Solicitors in that exact peachy-coral frock. There was nothing particularly alluring about it. It was modestly cut to her collarbone and the sleeves kissed her wrists. In fact, it may have covered more of her skin than any other dress I’d seen her wear.
But the effect was a kick to the gut. It was—she was—breathtaking. Breathtaking and real. That day, she had foregone the fashionable, face-framing ringlets and elaborate twists in favor of a simple knot. Free from the distraction of overdone curls, her eyes seemed bigger, brighter. Her lips were fuller than I’d ever noted, and heart-shaped, just like her face. Without the lace and ribbon frippery, there was nothing to distract from her graceful curves.
She was tangible.
I was a self-aware man. I knew her allure that day probably had less to do with the dress and more to do with my newly changed situation. In our previous meetings, I had been Mr. Summers, clergyman’s son and solicitor. At that meeting, less than a fortnight after my father, uncle, and cousin passed in one wretched accident, I was an earl—Lord Leighton. And entirely without warning, I went from a background character of her life, to a potential suitor. Though I had no intention then of keepingthe title as soon as I found a way out of it—that knowledge hadn’t been enough to keep my breath in my body.
Which would’ve been all well and good, except it didn’t go away. The flood gates had been opened that day and now irritation and adoration warred every time she crashed into my life, wreaking havoc.
She’d drawn that reaction in mere hours. What would be left of me at the end of six days?
“Mr. Summers?” A bright voice came from the open door. I turned toward him, rolling my head along the wall.
“Yes, Alfie?”
“Mr. Jack says we should eat here. Do ye want to come in? Or did ye need a few more minutes?” There was a cheeky quality to his grin, indicating that he was entirely aware of my predicament.
I sighed, then stepped out of the so-called carriage. “It’s Lady Davina, Alfie.”
“Mr. Jack said I can call her whatever I like.”
I shrugged, eyeing my great coat warily before setting it on the seat. “Are you staying here?”
“Ole Rory is bringing me a plate.”
“Very good. Do you mind buckling the door?” The words were even more ridiculous when spoken out in the world than they had been in my head.
“Not at all.”
After setting off into the courtyard beneath the high stone archway, I rolled my shoulders slowly, trying to ease the first strains of ache. It would only be worse from here. Unending days in a poorly sprung carriage would be the end of my spine.
The inn opened onto the tea room. The yellow walls were wideset, spacious, and filled with the tempting scents of hearty soups and baking pies. The oak floor creaked beneath my black hessians, protesting the addition of my weight.
Movement from the far corner caught my gaze. Lady Davina had selected a table for two near a bay window and waved me over.
“Where’s Rory?” I asked as I sat across from her.
“She’s seeing about getting Alfie a plate. I ordered you the shepherd’s pie. I hope that is to your taste.”
“It’s fine. I’ve only changed horses here, never stopped for a meal. It’s nice.”
“I hope it is. It certainly smells as though it is.”
No sooner had she spoken than a plump, rosy-cheeked maid set two plates before us. The potato topping was perfectly caramelized, and she was right, the pie smelled incredible.
We nodded our thanks before digging in without a word. The meal was delectable, the vegetables retained a firm bite and the meat was seasoned to perfection. Fresh herbs complemented the flavors without overpowering.
“This is quite good,” Lady Davina murmured between bites when we were both nearly half finished. Her cheeks were pinked with a pleased flush.
For a brief flash, I could see it. Day after day, returning to a cozy little house, sitting across from her at a round table with a blue-checkered tablecloth, enjoying an excellent meal and secretive smiles.
