The duke started.
I jerked and tried to pull my hand out of his, while Ireminded myself to get it together.
I didn’t succeed in pulling my hand out of his because heheld fast.
I focused on him.
“You’re well then, my lady?”he asked in a strangelysearching manner.
“Peachy,” I replied.“I’m out of that infernal carriage.Ihave company that is not my often quite irritating father.”
Dad-not-Dad grunted, being the kind of man who could loadthat small sound with surprise, offense and disapproval.
Even so, I kept going.
“The sun is shining.This house is ridiculously perfect.Iassume you have food, and intend to feed me, which I will welcome with heartand soul as I’m starved.And your son is remarkably ugly, but I fear I have nochoice but to accept him.”
The duke blinked at me.
I got concerned I’d taken it too far.
This was, of course, a whole parallel universe where therewere no cell phones, cars, DoorDash or Ted Lasso.
I kicked butt at a meet the parents at home.
But I’d never met a duke, even in my world.
He busted out laughing.
Okay.
Shoo!
I hadn’t lost my touch.
Still chuckling, he finally greeted Dad-not-Dad with adismissive, “Derryman,” then tucked my hand in the crook of his elbow as hestarted guiding me toward the house, stating, “We had such grave concerns,seeing as he turned out so unsightly.I must tell you how relieved I am youhave a generous heart.”
“So generous, the birds sing directly to me, and the miceare my friends,” I replied flippantly.
His brows drew together, humor remaining on his face, whenhe returned in all seriousness, “Of course they are.”
Um.
What?
He looked where he was guiding me and called, “Loren, son,are you going to come greet your future bride?”
Loren, by the by, had not moved a muscle.Not one of themany, seemingly magnificently defined, astoundingly attractive ones that madeup his big, tall, broad-shouldered, lean-hipped, fabulous body.
He was still leaning against the column wearing light beigebreeches (that left nothing to the imagination with those beefy thighs, or thedelectable bulge between them), dark brown boots, a white shirt with billowysleeves contained by a chocolate brocade, low-dipping vest (wrong, I needed toremember, they called them waistcoats).
No neckcloth, so I could see his tan, corded throat, and itmade my mouth water.
I’d been in that world three weeks.It all seemed like asick joke in the beginning (and still did), including the clothes.
But although I would perhaps commit murder to see this guyin jeans, I was suddenly getting the clothes.
He had his arms crossed on his wide chest, his boots crossedat the ankles, and his lazy brown eyes with their lush lashes trained on me.
