Chapter Two

Chapter Two

Turkey Baster

Maxine Dawes

Community Manager

Hawkvale

The Road to Pinkwick House

MarbleborneRegion

The Parallel

Two Weeks Later

Turkey baster.

If she wanted a kid, she should have used that damned turkey baster.

These were my thoughts as the carriage…

Yeah, that’s what I said…

The carriage…

Slowly made its way down the road, bipping and bopping, swaying and bouncing, and serious to God, with all that movement, it was a wonder I didn’t hurl all over my gown.

Yeah, that’s what I said.

My gown.

Women wore gowns in this world.

And corsets.

One thing I knew for certain, the kind you had to wear was nowhere near as comfortable as the kind you bought to give a thrill to your guy.

I looked at “my dad.”

He was a lot heavier in this world.

This might be because he was a lot richer. Or it could be because he was a lot lazier (because when he wasn’t all up in my face, teaching me things about this world, he pretty much did nothing but sit around and plot, or maybe it was sulk). Or it could be God’s punishment because he was a gigantically bigger dick than my real dad was.

And considering my dad was a colossal asshole, that was serious.

But I had a plan.

Play his game. Pretend I was doing his bidding (and FYI: his bidding was that I was supposed to let some royal guy marry me, have sex with me, make me pregnant, and once I had a son, I could have my mom back and go home, leaving said son behind—uh-huh, that was his bidding).

My plan was, while I went about doing this unconscionably awful stuff (or going through the motions), I’d figure out where Mom was. Once I did that, I’d get her, and that troubled woman who looked exactly like me, who was now with her.

After that there would be the small matter of finding a witch to send us from this Disney Movie from Hell back to the real world.

And when we were home, I’d need to sell a kidney and about a million pints of plasma in order to afford the therapy it was going to take to see Mom through the aftermath of this nightmare. Not to mention the ongoing care that chick was going to need. Because I knew another thing for certain, she seemed docile and sweet (albeit freaked way the heck out), but she was messed up and she needed someone looking after her. And for certain this guy, who was her father, wasn’t doing a bang-up job of it.

However, that someone looking after her should maybe have twelve degrees that taught them how to do that adequately, and thus should not be my mom behind bars in a fucking dungeon somewhere in this Disney Movie from Hell.

I looked out the window at the countryside rolling past, hating it was so gorgeous.

But it was.

The colors were ridiculously vibrant. The flora and fauna plentiful. The air even seemed like it had glitter floating through it, and it smelled amazing. Fresh and clean. Wherever we were right then, you could smell the grass or the flowers. But when you got near a river, you could smell the water (yeah, the water, I wasn’t kidding, and it smelled fantastic).

My favorite? When you rode through a village and you got a whiff of bread baking or meat roasting.

I was Belle drifting through town (though, also going through countryside, and not doing this dancing and reading a book, but bipping and bopping in a carriage).

Except my “dad” was Gaston grown up and a hundred times more of a villain than he was in the movie.

Years ago, Mom and I had sat at her kitchen table, as we were wont to do, drinking wine, as we were also wont to do, bent over laughing so hard (again, as was our wont) after she said she should have forgone the whole dad thing and just gotten some guy’s sperm and a turkey baster.

We then went on to make up all sorts of ways we would respect and honor said turkey baster, with shrines and offerings, giving it a birthday and presenting it with a cake (the baster, we decided, liked angel food, which, obvs, was an excuse for us to make angel food cake).

Sadly, I was not conceived with a turkey baster.

Suffice it to say, Dad had broken Mom’s heart (repeatedly).

Mine (repeatedly).

And the last time he did that was three weeks ago when he sold us to his doppelganger from a parallel universe, me to stand in the stead of his daughter and act as brood mare to some dukeling, and Mom to be imprisoned so I’d do what I was told.

Oh yeah, right.

I forgot a part of my plan.

Once we got home, find my father, kick him in the gonads and spit in his face.

Only that man could discover there was a parallel universe (I mean, really?). Trust me, I could go the rest of my life not knowing this place existed and never, ever coming here. I didn’t care how many flowers there were and how cute it was to see a plethora of cotton-tail bunnies scampering through the trees. And it was cute, believe me.

Not only did Dad discover it, but he found some way to get himself something from it (in this instance, if what had been scattered on his coffee table along with beer cans and overflowing ashtrays was the telltale sign, it was a bag of emeralds).

Hanging me and Mom out to dry in the process.

“You know the consequences if you should do anything foolish,” Dad’s voice came from not-Dad-but-still-Dad’s stupid mouth.

I looked to him to see he was staring out the opposite window.

I looked out that window.

Oh boy.

That must be Pinkwick House, the country seat of the House of Dalton. One of, apparently, a bunch of properties these rich, royal dudes owned.

The big one?

DalwinCastle, which was supposedly amazing and perched on a cliff.

But that might be for later, say, should I and my fiancé decide to be married there.

For now, things of note about Pinkwick House.

One, it was pink. A mellow, precious, perfect pink that was ludicrously appealing.

Two, it was large. It was not a house. Unless you referred to Downton Abbey as a house, which you did not. Because it was a huge-ass abbey turned into a house where rich people lived.

Three, it was so perfect, the air liked it better than other places in this world, because the air glittered a ton more there.

Four, there was a creek up the hill at the side of it that broke off into four tributary streams that rushed in front of and behind the house, the water twinkling diamond-like in the bright sun, making the picture-perfect scene even more perfect.

Five, there were flowers freaking everywhere. Profuse pink and white wisteria graced the arch above the front door and fell from the eaves of the house. Lush green ivy snaked up the walls. Huge urns filled with purple and blue blooms dotted all over the place.

Six, there were fountains flowing into baths on either side of the front door. The front area was an elegantly curved drive, the lawn around it manicured. But beyond that to the sides, and you could even see to the back, was a riot of meandering gardens you could get lost in for days.

Even the quaint stone outbuildings crawling with ivy and wisteria looked out of a fairy tale.

Straight up, on the cobblestone courtyard in front of what had to be stables, I’d lay money down Jaq and Gus were made into footmen there sometime in the last century.

It was gorgeous. It was exquisite.

I hated it.

“Did you hear me, Maxine?” Dad-not-Dad asked.

“I harbor a death wish for you. It is fervent. I have embraced it with all that is me. But sadly, this does not mean I can no longer hear your bleating. Ow!”

He kicked me in the shin.

Hard.

It hurt.

A lot.

I glared at him.

“You respect your father,” he bit out.

“You’re not my father,” I returned.

He moved his feet like he was going to kick me again.

I shifted mine and snapped, “Fine. Right. You do know, I haven’t forgotten my mother is in that hellhole taking care of your daughter.”

He settled back and watched the pink house get closer. “Don’t forget it. And don’t forget our deal.”

I wound a hand in a circle in front of me. Incidentally, it was a hand covered in a baby-blue kid leather glove with baby-blue-covered buttons on the inside at the wrist and intricate seam-work on the outside of the hand with delicate scalloping around the edges. They were lovely, and they felt like butter. I loathed them.

“Make him fall in love with me. Get him to knock me up. Produce a son. Get pat on the head. Be reunited with my mother and let out of this nightmare. Yeah, I didn’t forget our deal.”

He turned back to me. “We say yes in this world.”

I didn’t reply.

“Remember my teachings,” he ordered. “I haven’t spent hour after hour for three weeks molding you into a fine lady of Hawkvale, a woman fit to be called Countess of Derryman, which you are, for you to fall at this first hurdle.”

You guessed it.

After that trip where he took me, blindfolded, to see where Mom and the other me were holed up, a whole lot of unfun Eliza Doolittle garbage had been going on for three weeks.

Which was apropos, considering a number of things, including my current outfit (baby blue, form fitting down to kickpleats that started at my knees, a smart, knife-edged bow at the back of said knees, a one-foot train trailing from it, a long-sleeved bolero jacket up top that buttoned over my breasts up to my neck, the dress under had short, cap sleeves and a square neckline that exposed cleavage, all of this made in silk wool—it was simple, but fabulous, however the large hat with enormous rosettes that sat at a tilt on my head was not simple, it was extraordinary, and I detested it…all of it).

I again didn’t reply.

“You perform well,” he stated, “your mother gets the reward.”

“And your daughter,” I prompted.

He rolled his eyes and scoffed, “She’ll be fine. She doesn’t even know where she is.”

“She might have some issues,” I said quietly. “But she’s not stupid.”

His gaze skewered me. “Speak not of what you know nothing about.”

“I know that woman has no idea where she is, but she does know she’s not home.”

“She’s home for the first time since she was six,” he spat.

Six?

Did Maxine of this world get sick at six?

Maxine of this world.

God, my mom was having to take care of another me, one who was terrified, confused and not well.

But she looked exactly like me.

And Mom had to do this in a prison cell.

I noticed that he realized he’d said too much, his face closed down, and he reminded me coolly, “You handle this meeting with aplomb, they get mattresses and pillows, more blankets and an extra meal.”

I gritted my teeth.

And then there was that.

I was informed they got breakfast “gruel” (whatever that was, but it didn’t sound nice) and bread and broth for dinner. Plus water.

That was it.

And their blankets were scratchy wool, hopefully warm, but thin.

And their cots were just cots, no padding, nothing.

“You handle this weekend with aplomb, keep the betrothal intact, and we begin preparations for your wedding, they will be moved to a small cottage I own. There, they will stay until you finish your part of the deal. They will remain under guard, of course, but they will have more room, far more amenities and will be treated as my guests.”

His daughter, treated as his guest.

He was repugnant. Totally a bigger dick than my dad.

The carriage made a turn and shuddered to a halt.

“Are we agreed?” he pressed.

“I’m here, aren’t I?”

“You have no choice but to be here. Thus, I’ll hear you say it,” he demanded.

“You gotta let me do this my way,” I returned.

His brows shot together in alarm. “Pardon?”

“I know you probably don’t get this concept, but I love my mother more than my own life. And I have a heart, so I don’t know your girl, I just know she needs to be somewhere not where she is now. If, for the next however long this takes, it’s a cottage instead of a prison cell, with beds and good food and room to move, I’ll take it. In other words, I’m not going to fuck this up.”

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).

No neckcloth, so I could see his tan, corded throat, and it made my mouth water.

I’d been in that world three weeks. It all seemed like a sick joke in the beginning (and still did), including the clothes.

But although I would perhaps commit murder to see this guy in jeans, I was suddenly getting the clothes.

He had his arms crossed on his wide chest, his boots crossed at the ankles, and his lazy brown eyes with their lush lashes trained on me.

We stopped at the foot of the four steps that led to the front door.

A sudden wind swept through, taking wisteria petals with it, and they floated with the glitter in the air between us.

I’d already fallen in lust, but being that close to him, for the first time thinking this was a different kind of Disney, the adult kind, but it wasn’t from hell in the slightest, I fell a whole lot deeper.

Loren’s eyes moved down my length and then up, without showing even a smidgeon of real interest, and it was then I became uncomfortably mindful of the fact that I was on display.

A ware.

He was a dukeling.

Royal.

And in this moment, he could take me.

Or pass.

“She’ll do,” he murmured.

My lips parted in shock.

They did this not only at his words.

They stayed this way when he turned and strolled into the house, disappearing in the shadows, not uttering another sound.