by Gina Lamm
Jamie crossed her arms over her bodice and chewed her lip thoughtfully. Mrs. K was right. This wasn’t an easy problem to solve. How could she help Mike make up his mind about her? And what the hell would they do if he decided that he loved her back? She certainly didn’t want to spend the rest of her life without a shower, that was for certain.
“I really don’t know. Maybe we should lay low for a while, give it more time,” Jamie said to the housekeeper. She looked up at Jamie like she’d stolen her favorite sewing needles. “Seriously. I’ll stick around here, and hopefully Collette won’t make good on her threat. Mike needs some time to figure some things out. And honestly, I do too.”
Mrs. K shook her head. “So be it.” She gathered up her armload of linen and turned to leave. “I do not agree with your method, Miss Jamie. I must, in all fairness, tell you that I intend to forward his lordship’s progress by whatever means necessary.”
Jamie sank down on the bed, flopping against the cream-colored pillows. “Be my guest, Mrs. K. If you can help him make up his mind about stuff, then I can get home sooner.”
Jamie realized, as Mrs. K let the door softly click shut behind her, that was probably about the dumbest thing she ever could have done. Jamie had basically handed a relationship junkie a loaded syringe.
When Muriel came upstairs to dress Jamie for dinner, she figured out that the loaded syringe on the loose was the least of her worries.
Jamie pegged the thin girl with an open-mouthed stare.
“What do you mean Mike’s here for dinner? He’s only eaten dinner with me once in the whole time I’ve been here! What would make him stay here tonight?”
Muriel shook her head and held out a cream-colored silk gown for Jamie to put on. “Mrs. K didn’t see fit to let me know, miss. She said to make sure you were looking your finest. Now, please, allow me to do up the buttons.”
Shaking her head incredulously, Jamie turned and allowed Muriel to work. Man. When Mrs. K made up her mind about something, she really went balls to the wall. It was sort of inspiring, actually. If she believed in Jamie and Mike that strongly, maybe there was something worth chasing after all.
Muriel finished up Jamie’s buttons and seated her by the dressing table so the maid could do her hair. Jamie watched her in the mirror as she worked. Tonight, she’d settled on piling the hair in loose curls around the crown of Jamie’s head, leaving a few tendrils to curl temptingly down the length of her neck.
Muriel produced a small glass vial from her apron and removed the stopper. With a gentle finger, she applied a tiny amount of the substance to the nape of Jamie’s neck, her wrists, and behind her ears.
“What’s that?”
“It’s tincture of roses, miss. It will make you smell like a beautiful garden. His lordship won’t be able to resist.”
Jamie rolled her eyes and turned to face the maid. “Mur, does everybody in this house know about Mike’s and my, um, interest in each other?”
At her nod, Jamie wished she could melt into the floor. Jean Philippe, the kitchen maids, Thornton, George the footman, even the stableboys knew she had a crush on the earl? Oh Lord. This was worse than the time she’d accidentally put her sweatpants on inside-out before going to the gym. That had been the end of her brief foray into physical fitness. No less embarrassing than this particular moment, though. Too bad she couldn’t borrow a disappearance spell from Wilhelmina.
When Muriel left her, Jamie had a couple of minutes before dinnertime. She made her way down the hallway. Before she could reach the staircase, she stopped at the open door of Mike’s room.
A faint squeak drew her attention.
Gingerly, she poked her head through the door. The bedclothes were rumpled, and a large, bony body was curled up in the center of them. Baron’s yawn had apparently been what she’d heard because he smacked his lips a couple of times, gave her a look, and went back to sleep.
She started to back out of the room, but then the bureau in the corner caught her eye.
Had Mrs. K talked to Wilhelmina again? Or was the portal to her time still open?
Drawn by curiosity, she made her way across the dimly lit room to the tall bureau. The mirrors glinted in the dying rays of the sun that shone weakly through the window. She stood before the mahogany wood, arguing with herself.
Should she test the mirror? What if the portal was open, and it sucked her through? Could she take that chance? She’d never be able to return again if she did.
But what could it hurt, just to see?
Her hand lifted slowly, almost of its own volition. She watched her trembling fingers as they moved closer to the glass. Closer. Only a couple of inches away. In another heartbeat, she’d be touching the glass. Would it be solid, or would it pull her through again?
A high-pitched whine broke her trance. She whirled around. Baron had sat up on the bed, large eyes worried.
She crossed over to the hound, sat beside him on the bed, and hugged the hot, bony body.
“It’s okay, boy,” she said, her voice shaking slightly. “I’m not going anywhere. Not yet.”
As if satisfied with her promise, he gave her a gentle kiss on the nose before lying back down.
With a sigh, she stood and knocked blue-gray hairs from her silk gown. She didn’t look at the bureau again as she left the room. That had been a stupid thing to do.
When she got to the sitting room, only Thornton, the butler, was there. He smiled when he saw her and ladled a pink concoction from a cut-crystal bowl into a glass. Handing it to her, he said, “Miss Marten. His lordship will be down momentarily. In the interim, he asks that you have a drink of his special punch. An old Axelby family recipe.”
Jamie wasn’t fooled by the old man’s innocent smile for one second. Pegging him with her best bullshit-detector stare, she said, “Yeah, right. Mrs. Knightsbridge made this punch, didn’t she?”
The butler drew himself upright, looking offended. “Not at all, Miss Marten. I believe that Mrs. Knightsbridge has had the evening off. His lordship prepared this and bade me give it you when you arrived.”
The old man was staring her straight in the eye. His body was stiff, not moving a bit. It was hard to tell if he was standing that way because he was offended at her question, lying, or because he was a starched-up old butler. After a few seconds, when he didn’t move, break his gaze, or collapse in tears, Jamie sighed.
“Okay.” She took the glass he offered. If anyone was going to slip her a mickey, it wasn’t going to be sweet old Thornton.
He smiled and bowed. “Please enjoy, Miss Marten.”
“I’m sure I will.” She couldn’t help smiling back. When he left the room, she took a suspicious sniff of the glass. It smelled like lemons, sugar, and some kind of liquor.
“Bottoms up,” she muttered, and took a swig.
It was like an electric lemonade with rosemary, mint, and some fucking killer gin. THIS was a cocktail. The Axelbys apparently knew their way around a bar.
“Slainté,” she toasted the closed door behind Thornton, and downed the rest of the drink. Wow. Talk about liquid courage.
By the time Mike entered the room, she was pleasantly warm inside. She was working on her fourth drink, and the tips of her fingers were going a little, well, numb.
“Heya, Mikey!” She tossed back the rest of her cocktail and set the glass down on the table beside her with a solid thunk. Gosh, Mike had probably had a little too much Axelby punch too. He wasn’t walking too straight. He weaved back and forth as he crossed the room toward her. She giggled at the sight.
“Good evening, Miss Marten.” His eyes were bright as he sat beside her on the settee. She tried to check his pupils to see if they were dilated, but his head wobbled around too much for her to see clearly.
“Nice of you to have me for dinner. Whoops. Invite me to dinner, anyway. Or have dinner with me. Whatever.”
Her loss of the English language didn’t seem to bother Mike. “My pleasure. Shall we go in?”
&
nbsp; “I’d love to.”
Well, she would have loved to if that damn cocktail hadn’t put gin where her kneecaps should be. Her first two attempts to rise failed miserably. Fortunately, Mike seemed to be a bit more sober than she was. He helped her to her feet, steadying her when she would have pitched forward too far.
“Thanks, Mikey.” She grinned. Impulsively, she threw her arms around him, pressing her face into his black evening jacket. “God, you smell good. Did you use some of Mur’s rose tincture too?”
Mike’s laugh rumbled through her cheek, and she snuggled against the soft vibrations. “Jamie, dearling, I do believe you are foxed.”
She yanked back, nearly giving herself whiplash in the process. “No! Well, maybe.” She checked her fingers, tapping them against each other. Nothing. She dug her middle fingernail into her thumb. Bupkes. She bit her thumb. No pain. Oh shit.
“Yeah, I might be drunk. Sorry.” She looked up at him, her forehead wrinkling as she frowned.
“Whatever have you been imbibing?”
She swatted at him, missing the arm she’d been aiming for completely. “It’s all your fault. Thornton told me about the punch. Family recipe, huh? That shit’s dangerous.”
Mike shook his head at her. “You are talking nonsense now. Best to get you to bed.”
A mischievous grin spread across her face, and she draped her arms around Mike’s neck. “Was that your plan? Get me into bed? You didn’t need to get me drunk to do that.”
She pressed her lips against his then. She wasn’t sure if his mouth had been open because he was about to say something else, or if he was really into the idea of kissing her. At that point, she really didn’t give a shit. Her libido had been working overtime since she’d figured out how she felt about Mike, and this alcohol-hazed make-out session was just what the hormones ordered.
Mike’s arms wrapped around her, his hands resting lightly on her hips. He responded to the bold forays of her tongue with passion. She moaned deep in her throat at the feeling of his tongue tasting the depths of her mouth. God, he was such an incredible kisser.
Feeling even bolder, she rubbed along his back, down to his ass. She pulled the firm muscles closer to her, craving the hard heat that she knew was between them. There was a good reason she despised these damn petticoats, and by gum, she was going to feel him tonight.
When he pulled his mouth from hers, she took advantage of the opportunity. She pressed her lips along his smooth jaw, kissing her way down to the cleft in his chin, then fumbling with the buttons of his waistcoat.
“Jamie,” he hissed in a whisper. “Whatever are you doing?”
“Getting you naked,” she said to his chest. “What’s up with these damn buttons?”
He grabbed her hands, stilling them. “No. You mustn’t…”
“Don’t keep telling me what to do!” She blew up at him, her frustrated lust and drunk brain obliterating whatever filter she had left. “You’ve been wanting me for a while. I want you too. You know I love you, so what’s keeping us from doing what people do?”
Mike looked at her for the longest time without saying a word. Her insides grew cold.
“Forget it.” She pulled free from his grasp and turned to head out of the room, doing her damnedest to keep from wobbling.
“Jamie, wait.”
She ignored him, focusing instead on trying to finish her exit without walking into anything. It was damn difficult, considering the floor kept moving on her.
“Jamie!”
She’d thought she’d been moving pretty quickly, but Mike caught her anyway. She tried not to notice how good his body felt pressed against the length of her back.
“What?”
His lips pressed to the column of her neck, giving her shivers. She tilted her head, lost in the sensation of his light, nipping kisses against the sensitive skin.
“I will accompany you to your room, if you wish. Only give me a moment.” His breath blew against her neck as he spoke.
“Okay,” she breathed.
He led her to the doorjamb, placing her hand on it to keep her steady. She closed her eyes while he was gone. Were they really going to do this?
“Jamie?”
She fluttered her eyes open. Wow, that was fast. “Hey,” she breathed, smiling like an idiot.
She let out a squeak as Mike scooped her up into his arms. “This may be safer than allowing you to walk up the stairs.”
“Probably.” She giggled and wrapped her arms around his neck as they ascended to the second floor. He was so strong. He made her feel light and delicate and all womanly and stuff. God, he was handsome.
When they reached her bedroom, he let her down to stand on her own.
“Are we, I mean, do you want to come inside? Get comfortable?” Suddenly awkward, she wasn’t sure what to do next.
He shook his head with a sad smile, his hand hot against the small of her back. “It would be wrong of me to take advantage of you in this way. You are foxed. A gentleman cannot…”
“Fuck the gentleman,” she growled, and kissed him again.
He pulled away this time, not giving in to her demands.
Hot shame took the place of the bubbling lust in her belly. She looked down at the floor, eyes curiously filled with tears.
“Sorry,” she whispered. She turned to go into her bedroom, but her foot caught on her long skirt and she fell against him.
“Careful,” he said quietly, helping her regain her footing. She shrugged free of his gentle grip.
“I’m fine. Go off to your mistress or whatever. I’ll be gone tomorrow.”
When she would have shut the door in his face, he stopped her. His body was tense, face dark as he said, “You will do no such thing, Jamie Marten. Call Muriel. Once you have changed into your nightclothes, I will meet you in my bedchamber.”
Twenty
Mike had to shut the door for her. Jamie was too stunned to do it for herself.
His words had the effect of an ice-cold shower on her brain—still fuzzy but a helluva lot clearer than it had been before. Holy shit. Were they really going to do this?
Jamie yanked on the bell cord a little harder than necessary. Muriel entered the room only moments later at a dead run.
“Whatever is wrong, miss? Are you ill?”
“Yes. No. Not ill. Tipsy. Well, drunk. Seriously. Not kidding. And sorry. Can you help me change?”
Muriel’s pale-blue eyes went round at Jamie’s response, but she came forward and started undoing the buttons anyway. Jamie caught sight of Muriel’s face in the mirror and guilt gnawed at her when the maid pulled the pins from her hair. Muriel had done such a great job on it, and she hadn’t even given Mike a chance to look at it before she got shitfaced.
Once Muriel had loosened all the layers enough so Jamie could take over, Jamie shooed her from the room. Muriel didn’t need to see the last-minute cleansing session.
Jamie had had her daily bath, but she hadn’t felt clean enough in weeks. She used the chilly water in the basin and a clean cloth, trying her best to scrub any lingering offensive odors away. She didn’t wash away Muriel’s special perfume though. She liked it.
She’d contemplated having Mrs. K borrow Mike’s razor so she could shave her legs, but once she’d learned it was a straight razor, she’d given up. Knowing her luck, she’d go all Sweeney Todd on herself accidentally.
Jamie stood naked in front of the mirror, turning this way and that, nerves chomping at her confidence and draining the comforting haze of alcohol away.
She’d put on a little weight since she’d been there. Jean Philippe definitely cooked better than she was used to. Her hair looked good, a tumble of soft curls down her back, but her highlights had started growing out a bit. Dark roots showed at her crown.
Her legs weren’t smooth and hairless as she liked them to be. The first thing she was going to do when she got back home was invest in some laser hair removal. She grimaced as she realized she wasn’t beautiful like Colle
tte was. The black-haired beauty probably looked like a perfect porn star when she was naked. Jamie sighed in disappointment and turned away from the mirror. Either Mike would be interested or not. He’d want her or not. He’d love her or not. And there wasn’t a damn thing she could do to influence any of those decisions.
She slipped the nightgown over her head, pulled on a robe, fluffed out her hair, practiced an alluring smile, and headed out of her bedroom to Mike’s chamber. Here goes nothing. Or everything. Whichever.
Her soft knock on Mike’s door was met by his voice calling, “Enter.”
She laughed nervously as she opened the door. “You sound like Captain Picard when you say that.”
“Who?” He crooked a brow at her and rose from his seat by the fireplace. He’d removed his jacket, waistcoat, boots, and cravat. He looked much more comfortable in his stockinged feet, shirt, and breeches. There was no sign of the hound who’d been snoozing on the bed before dinner.
Jamie shook her head. “Nobody.” She walked over to him, trying her best to control the rampaging circus poodles in her stomach.
“Please, have a seat.” He gestured to the chair next to him.
“Okay.”
She sat. He sat. They stared at each other. He cleared his throat. She tucked a curl behind her ear.
He smiled. “Allow me to pour you a drink.”
Her jaw dropped, and she couldn’t stop the snort of laughter that escaped her as he cracked up.
“You…you cretin! That’s not funny!”
He wiped his eyes. “My apologies, Miss Marten. It seemed to help lighten the mood, however.”
She poked at his shoulder. “Yeah, it did that. But I think I’m going to stay away from the Axelby punch from now on if that’s okay. Where’d you get that recipe, anyway?”
He cocked his head to the side, not unlike Baron did when he heard an odd noise. “Axelby punch?”
“Yeah, the pink stuff I was drinking. Thornton told me you made it for me. Or was that a secret that I blew?”
Mike’s forehead furrowed. “No, it is not. To my knowledge, no one in my family has ever had a punch recipe. Pink, did you say? Mrs. Knightsbridge used to be fond of a sort of punch that was that color, as I recall.”
