Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 90426 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 452(@200wpm)___ 362(@250wpm)___ 301(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90426 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 452(@200wpm)___ 362(@250wpm)___ 301(@300wpm)
He shot forward and snapped, “You’re Lady Dawes, Countess of Derryman. You don’t speak in that manner.”
“Fuck you, Dad, and chill out. I got this.”
And on that, before he could annoy me any further, and so I could get this show on the road and out of close proximity to him, I threw open the door, rose from my seat, put out my (cute, I had to admit, in a bright and happy steampunk kind of way) baby-blue, kitten-heeled, buttons-at-the-side boot and stepped on the step that the footman who was there had folded down.
I looked toward the pink house…
And nearly fell flat on my face.
The footman caught my hand and I somehow made it down the steps.
There was an attractive, tall, straight, still-broad-shouldered, white-haired, older man making his way to the carriage.
But behind him, leaning against a column by the front door, the drooping wisteria nearly mingling with his thick dark hair…
Holy crap.
Did they make men that beautiful?
Oh my God.
Pleasetellmethat’stheMarquessofwherever, pleasetellmethat’stheMarquessofwherever, pleasetellme…
My mental chant was interrupted when my gloved hand was taken and I heard in a smooth, manly voice that had a thoroughly astonished tone, “Maxine, my goodness, my dear, you look…very well.”
I tipped my gaze up at the older hot guy, and since I’d totally forgotten where I was, I just stared at him blankly.
His expression grew tender, his hand around mine tightened, and he said gently, and also sadly, “Oh, my dear.”
Shit.
Right!
I had to do this.
Starting now.
“Your grace,” I replied, kept hold of his hand, but fell into a curtsy, dropping my head and fortunately covering my face with my ginormous hat so I could have a second to think.
Okay, that guy at the house was probably his son.
Which meant that was my fiancé.
Well, kind of, but not really.
But that was the guy I was supposed to make fall in love with me.
Then I was supposed to have sex with him.
Lots and lots of it (I just added that part, but didn’t you have to have lots of sex to get up the duff?).
Right, well…
Suddenly…
I could so totally do this.
(Not having the baby part, but I could kill time while I figured out where Mom and the other me were, rescue them and find some way to get us home, all while banging that…amazing…man—new item on my to-do list: figure out birth control in this world.)
His father’s fingers squeezed mine, and I straightened, looking again to him.
“It’s lovely to see you,” I told him.
“It’s…lovely…to see you…too,” he pushed out weirdly, staring intently at me.
“Dalton, my good man!” Dad-not-Dad greeted jovially, pushing close to our sides. “Isn’t she a vision? Just a vision.”
I was only beginning to feel out my role, but I flubbed it right off the bat.
It was bound to happen.
And it happened right then.
I rolled my eyes.
The duke started.
I jerked and tried to pull my hand out of his, while I reminded myself to get it together.
I didn’t succeed in pulling my hand out of his because he held fast.
I focused on him.
“You’re well then, my lady?” he asked in a strangely searching manner.
“Peachy,” I replied. “I’m out of that infernal carriage. I have company that is not my often quite irritating father.”
Dad-not-Dad grunted, being the kind of man who could load that small sound with surprise, offense and disapproval.
Even so, I kept going.
“The sun is shining. This house is ridiculously perfect. I assume you have food, and intend to feed me, which I will welcome with heart and soul as I’m starved. And your son is remarkably ugly, but I fear I have no choice 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 there were 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 a dismissive, “Derryman,” then tucked my hand in the crook of his elbow as he started 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 you have a generous heart.”
“So generous, the birds sing directly to me, and the mice are my friends,” I replied flippantly.
His brows drew together, humor remaining on his face, when he 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 the many, seemingly magnificently defined, astoundingly attractive ones that made up his big, tall, broad-shouldered, lean-hipped, fabulous body.
He was still leaning against the column wearing light beige breeches (that left nothing to the imagination with those beefy thighs, or the delectable bulge between them), dark brown boots, a white shirt with billowy sleeves contained by a chocolate brocade, low-dipping vest (wrong, I needed to remember, they called them waistcoats).