They stopped beside the driver’s side door. Daniel waved a gesturing hand over his muddy, grease-stained self. If Sam understood the rules of the house correctly, she understood the hesitation suddenly evident in every joint of his body. Staff who worked outside of the house weren’t supposed to come into the family’s living quarters and vice versa. Like no one wanted the cook fussing outside with the horses, no one wanted a chauffeur rubbing his greasy hands all over the silver… Or the duke’s daughter. The line between workers was strict, and even as new as Daniel was to their employ, it was apparent from the fear in his eyes he knew he would only be welcome in the Ashbrooke servants’ den, not in the family’s living spaces.
“I’d just muck up the whole place.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Sam scoffed. “You’re going to catch a horrible cold if you stay out here. C’mon.”
Defensively, her mind explained the concern away.You’re only worried about him catching a cold because of the date. Right, the date. If he gets a cold, you can’t bring him to the party on Friday, which would be a disaster. Nothing more.She reached for the car handle, but Daniel put his free hand over hers. It was like being touched by lightning.
“I’m sorry.” To his credit, he did genuinely look sorry. Sam couldn’t remember the last time a man had the guts to look so vulnerable in front of her. “But I have to ask you something first.”
“Do you want to get sick? You’d rather die of pneumonia than be my date. Do I have you figured out?”
“No!”
“Then let’s go inside!”
The scene was too romantic. The rain. The proximity. The way the rain and the proximity brought out the rich, sweet, whisky smell of him.
“It’s just…” Daniel stammered. “I wanted to ask you out, Samantha.”
“Sam,” she said, correcting his use of her full first name, not trusting her tongue to say anything more.
“Sam,” he echoed.
Why did she have to be cursed with the one man on earth who was an honest-to-God gentleman? Fingertips on Daniel’s free hand brushed hers gently, and he glanced up at her from beneath thick eyelashes.
“May I?”
“Sure.”
He took her hand firmly in his. All her life, Sam read the stories and heard the songs about sparks and electricity, the pops of passion that supposedly accompanied a touch like this. She didn’t want to refute the official account, especially considering the reality of her false situation, but it wasn’t fireworks when their hands met.
It was waking up from a nap to find someone put a blanket over you. It was slipping into a pair of warm socks after running through the rain. It was a shot of whisky in a cup of tea. It was the first laugh after crying for an entire afternoon.
“Would you give me the great pleasure of being my date to a ball at Ashbrooke Manor this Friday?”
“I’d be honored,” Samantha said. And she meant it. Dammit, she meant it.
“It’s a date, then.”
He released her into the car before jogging over to the passenger’s side and letting himself in. The pair were almost halfway to the house before Samantha realized he’d been holding the umbrella over her the entire time, letting himself soak through with sickening rain to keep her dry.
…
Friday came faster than Sam could have expected. Since the rainy afternoon with Daniel, she’d found herself the subject of text after text from the man. Nothing weird, nothing romantic or particularly flirtatious, even. Just conversation. Sam couldn’t remember the last time her phone had been used for anything other than utilitarian purposes. Texts from Thomas about the week’s dinner menu. Texts to Mrs. Long asking for a certain kind of wine. Texts to her father (always unanswered) about his frequent trips to and from London. Texts from Captain about the next Animos event.
When Daniel’s name illuminated her phone, she never knew what to expect when she slid open the screen. An anecdote about his work at the bookshop, an interesting article from the BBC, questions about her own day all came in rapid succession until conversation flowed as easily between them as if they were speaking face-to-face. He threw curveballs at her, ones she narrowly avoided whenever she could, inquiries about her father, her childhood, her dreams for the future. He was unpredictable. Yes, he must have been unpredictable, because it was theonlylogical explanation for why Sam’s stomach fluttered every time her phone vibrated.
The only thing she knew to expect was a “Good morning, Sam,” text around sunrise and a “Good night, Sam. Sleep tight,” message around midnight. Thomas insisted Ashbrooke house was populated by four centuries’ worth of ghosts. If he was right, Sam was sure they were getting a kick out of the way her lips involuntarily twitched every time she received one of those.
On Friday afternoon, Sam found herself in the dining room across from her brother, scarfing down sandwiches and crisps between party tasks, when her pocket buzzed. Thomas was droning on about something to do with the caterer they’d finally hired, and Sam was halfway listening. Being used to being on her own, though, she slid the phone onto the table and opened the message. A gif of a chubby bulldog puppy greeted her. He nudged open a closet door with his snout and proceeded to rip clothes off of his owner’s shelves, throwing the closet’s contents on the floor before lying and rolling over the fresh pile.
Whenyou’ve got a date in a few hours and can’t decide what to wear,read the caption.
Hand flying to muffle her laughter, Sam smiled. Thomas, whose story she’d interrupted, noticed the sudden change.
“So,” he asked, his tone too high to be casual, “who are you talking to?”
She’d been caught. Sam straightened, dropped the phone with no ceremony, and returned to carving up her cheese and pickle sandwich with a knife and fork. The one good thing about eating in a rich guy’s house was the wine. Even when the lunch could’ve been bought at a gas station, it was always accompanied by good wine. After shoving a bit of bread and cheese into her mouth, she washed it down with three glugs of Chardonnay. A little liquid courage for the face-off.
