by Gina Lamm
She wiped her fingers on the cloth napkin, unable to explain the knot of awkwardness that swelled in her throat. “Have you been thinking about that since Monday? Honestly, Mike, it wasn’t your fault. I appreciate you taking the time to teach me how to ride. You didn’t have to do it, and you were a really good teacher. I just let my mouth overload my a…er, bottom, with Collette. You weren’t to blame. I was.”
He kept his stare trained on her. “Nonetheless, I beg your forgiveness. I know my own blame in the matter.”
She shook her head but agreed. “Okay. If it will make you feel better, you’re forgiven for something that really wasn’t your fault to begin with.”
Some of the darkness left his face, and he nodded solemnly. “I thank you, Miss Marten.”
She gave him a half smile and attacked her breakfast. Mike also turned his attention to the steaming plates of goodness in front of him. They ate in silence for a while, but it was a friendly silence. Every third bite Jamie took, she shared a bit with Baron. The hound showed his appreciation by resting his chin on her leg. All in all, it was as comforting a breakfast as she’d had in a long time.
When Jamie sat back, replete, sipping her tea, Mike spoke again.
“I have been unable to locate Miss Dubois, but I assure you that my secretary, Amberson, is awaiting her return most anxiously, with orders to inform me at once. Her protector, Mr. Waites, has apparently whisked her off for a jaunt, presumably into the country.”
Jamie set her teacup down on the table, chagrined to see the way her hand shook a little. “I’d like to forget about it and move on, if you don’t mind. Can we drop it?”
He tilted his head quizzically. “Am I to understand that you would prefer to leave her unpunished for her crime?”
Jamie twisted the cloth napkin in her lap. Baron sniffed at it eagerly, probably hoping it was stuffed with ham or eggs or toast and jam. “I don’t want her to get away with being a bi…um, horrible to me, but I think karma will kick her later on. I’d rather focus on happier things than Collette.”
A wry twist to his mouth was answer enough without him speaking. She hurried to change the subject.
“Anyway, are you busy today? I was thinking I’d like to work on a project.”
“I have to meet with my solicitor this morning, but I will be free for the afternoon. I will be at your service after luncheon, if you wish.”
“That’d be great.” She smiled. He returned the expression, and she sighed inwardly. Another afternoon in his company. Now that his days as a bachelor were numbered, these hours were becoming more and more precious to her. She rose to her feet, watched him bow and leave the room. Now she had to figure out what the hell kind of project she could possibly come up with for them to do without any electricity, computers, video games, board games, cars, comics, or anything else she was used to. She had a feeling embroidery wasn’t going to cut it.
Mrs. K wasn’t really much help. When Jamie cornered her in the kitchen to beg her for ideas, the housekeeper just stared at her. For that matter, the rest of the kitchen staff did too. She should have remembered to ring that stupid bell that called someone into the sitting room, but she hated treating people like trained monkeys. It was only a kitchen, for crying out loud. She was perfectly capable of walking into it and begging the housekeeper for something to do.
“It is quite simple, Miss Jamie. Play the pianoforte. Walk in the park. Sketch a portrait of him. I would suggest going for a brisk ride, but since your last outing ended so badly, perhaps a jaunt in the carriage would be safer.”
Mrs. K went back to arguing with cook over what to serve with boiled beef. Apparently, it was really important that cabbage be served alongside it. Jean Philippe was in favor of potatoes and greens. Such a big decision surely couldn’t be trusted to a mere cook.
The heat and noise of the kitchen disappeared behind Jamie as she moped her way from the house into the back garden. She dropped onto the bench and stared at the toes of her dark-blue slippers.
If she were back home, she’d take Mike out to the movies or maybe even the mall. He was so fascinated by gadgets that she was sure he’d love the escalators. If they were stuck at home, they’d probably watch some TV, or she could show Mike her game characters. He might even like to make one of his own. He’d probably be a melee class, she mused with a smile. Huge, strong, and completely dominant. Bossy types usually made great tanks, and Mike was definitely tank material. She probably wouldn’t mind healing if Mike were running point for their group.
She shook her head as she rubbed her nails against the stone bench. Stupid. Mike would never touch a computer. He’d never drive a car, never listen to an iPod, never know the wonders of a cotton-polyester blend shirt. She was still thinking like a modern woman. Despite the week-plus she’d spent in old London, she still wasn’t good at finding ways to kill time enjoyably. She wanted to wow Mike. To show him something he’d never get to see with anyone else in the world. To give him a taste of what it was like to live in her time.
That’s it!
Jamie rocketed off the bench and flew into the house. She nearly tripped over a sleeping Baron at the foot of the stairs, but she jumped over him in the nick of time. Getting to her bedroom was the work of a moment, and the door shut behind her with a resounding click.
When Muriel answered the bell, she looked curious. Jamie hadn’t ever really rung for the maid before. When Jamie explained the idea, Muriel was horrified, then dubious, then reluctant. But she helped a lot. With her assistance, Jamie changed into her tank top and shorts, and together they transformed a spare room to her exact specifications.
Jamie had to put a robe on to talk to Jean Philippe, the cook. He shook his head, not even stopping his potato peeling when she told him what she wanted him to do for her. He was completely against it. But when Jamie went toe-to-toe with the volatile Frenchman, looking him straight in his nearly black eyes, he had no choice. It probably didn’t hurt that she threatened to tell Mrs. Knightsbridge about his boiled beef mutiny. He paused on his potatoes to complete the mission she’d given him. She looked over his shoulder as he worked, giving tips and pointers.
When lunch was in the oven, Jamie bolted back up the stairs with strict instructions for Thornton to send Mike up as soon as the earl arrived. Muriel would bring their lunch up to them when it was done. Jamie sent George out to the nearest pub for the other stuff she needed, and before she knew it, the clock downstairs struck one. Showtime.
Jamie waited nervously by the open door of the spare room, which happened to be located next door to Mike’s bedroom. He probably wouldn’t like this idea at first. He’d most likely hate it. But she knew, if he gave it a chance, that he would really have fun. And, she thought as she tugged on her shorts, it certainly would be an afternoon that he’d never, ever forget.
The sound of Mike’s feet on the stairs made her heart jump into her throat. She tucked her hair behind her ear nervously, the weight of it unfamiliar on her shoulders after so many days of it being tucked into pins atop her head. She hoped he would give her a chance to explain all of this before he judged it. It might be a hard sell for her proper earl.
“Miss Marten?” he called when he reached the top of the stairs. She poked her head out of the doorway.
“Hey, Mike! Come on in. I hope you don’t mind, I set us up in here for the afternoon.”
He crooked his brows at her but took a step forward. She stopped him with a finger in the air. “Oh, one more thing. No jackets allowed. Or waistcoats. Or cravats. You can keep your boots on, but just a plain old shirt and pants.”
Drawing himself up to his full height, Mike gave a doubtful sigh. “Miss Marten, it is hardly proper—”
She stopped him by stepping into the hallway. His eyes bugged at her bare legs. “Don’t give me that. I know that my living in your house for the last week and a half hasn’t been proper either, but we’re both still kicking. Come on. Do this for me? Please? I promise it will make sense soon.”
He pursed his lips but disappeared into his room. She hoped he was doing as she’d asked but honestly felt like she might be left standing alone in the hallway for a very long time. Fortunately, she was wrong, and he came out of his room in his form-fitting trousers and shirt, open at the throat. She’d never seen him out of his formal earl-type-wear, and the difference was astounding. He looked even more gorgeous, if such a thing was possible.
“At your service, Miss Marten.”
She grinned. “Thanks. Oh, and this afternoon, it’s not Miss Marten, and it’s not my lord. I’m Jamie”—she pointed to her chest—“and you’re Mike.” He looked down at the finger she poked into his sternum. “Nothing fancy. Just a couple of friends hanging out. Come on.”
She grabbed his hand and pulled him into the room.
“What is all this?”
Muriel and Jamie had done an excellent job of turning the formerly stuffy sitting room into a replica of the twenty-first century. The rose-patterned embroidered settee was covered in a woolen blanket with pillows strewn everywhere. A desk in the corner held a small wooden box, liberated from the kitchen, to represent a computer screen. Jamie had drawn out letters on a piece of paper, and laid it out keyboard-style in front of it. A small book with a string wedged between the pages represented the mouse. Another larger box sat opposite the couch, their makeshift TV. Stacks of cards and books lined a side table, and a sheaf of blank paper lay on the desk chair, with a quill and inkwell at the ready.
“Welcome to my time. Well, as close as I could get it, anyway. Here, let me show you around.” She grabbed his hand and dragged him over to the couch. When she flopped down onto it, he didn’t follow. He stood beside the covered settee, looking sort of confused and vaguely uncomfortable. She pulled on his arm.
“Sit.”
He eased his way down, perching on the very edge of the couch. Small victory won, she grabbed a tiny wooden portrait frame that she’d doctored up.
“That’s the television. This little thing in my hand is a remote control. I can change channels and watch different movies and TV shows. They’re like plays, but on that little glass screen.”
He smiled. “Like moving portraits?”
“Exactly!” She grinned at him, glad he seemed to be relaxing. She showed him the computer, the way the mouse would move a pointer on the screen, the way websites looked. They’d started talking about comic books when there was a knock on the open door.
“Miss? I am supposed to say ‘pizza delivery’?”
Jamie jumped to her feet and ran to Muriel, clapping her hands. “Bravissima, bella! Yes. That’s perfect. Jean Philippe really outdid himself.”
George came into the room after the thin maid and her large, circular burden, carrying a jug of ale and two glasses.
“Guys, this looks awesome. Thanks. Just set it on the coffee table and skedaddle.”
George turned to Muriel, his freckled face confused. “Does she always speak in that manner?”
Muriel rolled her eyes and nodded. Relieved of their deliveries, they both disappeared.
Jamie turned back to Mike with a huge smile. He was staring at the pizza with brows lifted, mouth pursed, and head cocked. She couldn’t help but laugh at his quizzical expression.
“What’s wrong?”
“What have you done with Jean Philippe? This is not his usual fare.”
“I know. I ordered it special for us. This is a pizza. And beer, or ale, if you’d rather. This is the kind of food that we would eat on a date if you were in my time with me.”
He lowered one brow. “A date?”
She gulped. “Yeah, that’s when friends hang out together.” Her nervous smile must have tipped him off because his nod was not all that trusting.
Once she’d explained the bread, tomato sauce, and cheese concept, Mike was less reluctant. When she cut him a slice and demonstrated the proper technique, he actually started to enjoy himself. The beer was way stronger than she was used to, and the alcohol went to her head pretty quickly. They sat next to each other on the couch, closer now than before. After she watched Mike drain his beer, she sighed and let her head rest against his shoulder.
He froze.
She snuggled closer, her insides warm from the beer and her outsides warm from, well, him.
“Miss Marten?”
“Nope,” she said, smiling against his arm. “Jamie.”
“Jamie,” he said, gently pulling away. “This is not…”
She put a finger against his lips. “Sssh. None of that, remember? This isn’t 1816, this is the twenty-first century. And in my time, do you know what I’d want you to do?”
“What?” he whispered against her forefinger. Before she could answer, he pressed his lips to her finger, his hand covering hers to keep her trapped against his mouth.
Whatever she’d been planning to say got sucked away in the delicious sensation of Mike’s mouth against her fingers. He didn’t stop there. He kissed the back of her hand so softly, lips pressing a path up her wrist, against the delicate blue veins when he turned her hand over.
She was frozen in place but burning all over. Her body responded to Mike’s kisses, warmth blooming in her breasts, her belly, and lower. His mouth traveled up her arm, soft but strong and insistent.
Was this really happening? Or was she having a post-concussion alcohol-fueled erotic daydream? Only one way to find out.
Shattering the ice prison that her body was encased in, she pulled her arm away from Mike. He looked up at her, brown eyes questioning, but she answered him with her lips pressed against his.
This kiss was even better than the one in the hallway had been. There was none of the soft, sweet touches of lips, questioning teases that let two people get to know each other. This was a willing mutual exploration.
Mike pulled her body against his, lying back on the settee enough to pull her slightly atop him. Their tongues tangled sweetly, tasting each other, wild in their mutual passion. Mike’s hands wandered over her back, starting at her bare shoulders, then down, caressing her shoulder blades, down the length of her spine. His warm, strong hands stopped at the curve of her hips, where he pressed against her intimately.
She gasped into his mouth when she felt his hardness pressing into her. She’d have been lying if she said she hadn’t wanted this, but she’d not expected it to feel so damn good. Too damn good. So damn good that she knew it was too good to be true.
With a huge sigh, she pulled her mouth from Mike’s. For a moment, she let herself stay there, staring at him. His eyes were dark, his lips were full and swollen from their kissing, and his hips still pressed into hers. She wanted him so much. But she didn’t want a quick fling with Mike. Anything between them had to be all or nothing because she wouldn’t be able to live with herself any other way.
“Thank you,” she whispered to him. She pressed another kiss to his lips, this time a chaste, innocent one. “I should probably go.” She didn’t miss the wanting gleam in his eyes as she got up and left the room. As much as it killed her, leaving him wanting more was probably the best option. Too bad cold showers hadn’t been invented yet.
Fourteen
On Saturday, only three days away from the make-or-break night of Mike’s (and quite possibly her) life, Jamie had a panic attack.
She’d tried to be as near Mike as possible while attempting to keep her head the last few days. It was so damn hard. Every minute she spent with him made her realize how much time she actually did want to spend with him. Namely, the rest of her life.
They’d taken walks together. He’d showed her how he kept up with his estate books and maintained the day-to-day operations of his many properties. She began to feel sorry for Amberson, the secretary. Poor bastard had never even seen a calculator.
But Saturday afternoon, her carefully constructed emotional barriers came crashing down.
She’d been out in the garden, playing with Baron. She tossed a stick for him, over and over and over, and the young
greyhound had tirelessly chased and returned it. Jamie was exhausted way before the dog was. She was pleading with Baron to come inside with her and they’d go beg Jean Philippe for some snacks when Mike came through the door.
“Where are you going?” he asked her, a small smile on his lips.
“I’m pooped. Your dog is a slave driver.”
Mike laughed and bent to rub Baron’s ears. “Nonsense. He simply knows who is an easy mark. I do not allow him to sleep in my bed.” Mike winked at her, despite her bugged-out eyes and dropped jaw.
“Well…well…” she sputtered. “You entertain him then if you’re so special!”
“If you insist.” Another wink from him made her cheeks burn. She leaned up against the door and watched the earl as he proceeded to play with his dog.
A long pole was produced from a small lean-to shed. A string was wrapped around the end of the pole, making it resemble an extra-large fishing rod.
Mike unwound the string and tied his clean white handkerchief to the end of it. Baron jumped up and down, tail wagging and tongue lolling. He obviously knew what this strange setup meant, even if Jamie didn’t.
Mike walked to the open area on the left side of the garden, a wide patch of grass bare of other vegetation or shrubbery. Baron’s leaps became higher, and she could hear his jaws snapping excitedly.
“Please make sure to keep your distance. Baron can get very, ah, exuberant.” Mike smiled at her, and her heart tap-danced.
Mike threw the hanky straight out and began to turn in a circle, swinging the pole with its hanky-baited line. Baron took off after the hanky like a shot, body moving faster than Jamie could have imagined. His lean body curved and bent as he darted in a wide circle around Mike. Mike’s broad shoulders flexed as he swung the heavy pole around, eyes alight with joy at the sight of his dog having such fun. The sight of such shared happiness moved something inside Jamie, deep in her chest.
Mike’s laughter carried across the lawn to where she stood beside the house, a hand pressed against the swell of her breasts which were pushed up by those damn stays.
