Chapter 25

Twenty-Five

THE VILLAGE

The village, called Dunmorton, was picture perfect.

I shouldn’t have been surprised.

It could only be its remoteness that meant it wasn’t on the tourist track. It was just that postcard pretty, with buildings made of the stone that partially fashioned Duncroft, tight alleys of mews that spoke of modernization with respect to a different era, pretty flowerboxes and hanging planters that, even in late October, were a profusion of health and vibrant color.

There was a quaint church with the requisite graveyard surrounding it gracing the swell of a knoll. The freestanding schoolhouse was adorable. And there was a triangular park in a fork in the road, which was tiny but had huge trees that shaded the benches underneath.

And there was a lot more to it than I expected.

It was bigger, almost a town (but not quite), and it was clear the locals patronized it, and it was an attraction for the farther flung, but still local.

Along with the Italian place, the Indian restaurant, the Chinese takeaway and the chippie, there was a pretty tearoom, a bustling pharmacy, a florist with tubs of blooms outside, a fresh veg stall with crates of bright vegetables, and a pub with picnic tables and a bowling green at the back.

Ian and I walked all along its lanes, stopping for coffee and a custard slice at the tearoom (both very good), wandering the cemetery (he showed me the Alcott section, it was highly populated and had the most impressive tombstones). And the spag bol I had at Luigi’s was exemplary.

We left there and huddled close in the cold night air as Ian walked me to the pub at the other end.

And now we were at a booth in the back, seated beside each other, facing the quite lively pub (for a Tuesday evening), Ian with an expertly pulled pint of Guinness and me with my half pint of cider.

What I was also experiencing was something curious. Something that, even as long as I’d been living in England, was something I’d never quite understand as an American.

The class structure ingrained in those who were born to this sceptered isle.

The lord of the local manor was in attendance. And as I sat there I realized, all afternoon and evening, from passersby on the streets, to staff at Luigi’s, to the assiduously unobtrusive observing of us here in the pub, Ian commanded a deference that had nothing to do with his looks or manner or money, and everything to do with the blood he’d been born with.

I wanted to say I was immune to the appeal of it, that one should always live their lives earning that kind of respect, rather than happening into it by chance of birth.

But I couldn’t say that.

Although there was every possible plotline available to readers of romance novels, when something like this was on offer, the vast majority of them had the, yes, plucky heroine stealing the heart of the duke, or earl, or baron, not the man who pulls a good pint of Guinness at the local pub.

Rationally, it made no sense. All wealthy or privileged folk were not thoughtless or entitled and out of touch with the common person, all working-class folk were not slovenly and ignorant and undeserving, earning their low station by not working to get out of it.

People were people.

But the truth of it was, the amount of privilege Ian had, and the long, storied history of the family that went before him that carried the same, made him mysterious, fascinating…other.

That was it.

He was a rarity.

It was not that they were in the presence of their better.

Simply of their other.

A man who lived a life and came from a line that they couldn’t fathom, that would never be theirs, no matter if they made a lot of money or garnered tons of fame.

The beauty of it, the thing I found extraordinary and astonishing with the extent of his wealth, the vastness of the history of his family, was that Ian was clearly not out of touch. He realized this, and in the subtlest of ways, moved to alleviate it. Eye contact. Please and thank you. Compliments to the chef. Smiles to people who passed him on the street. Stopping to scratch the head of a dog or tell a woman the baby in her pram was beautiful. Taking his time for those who wanted it to assure them that Lord and Lady Alcott were doing very well, thank you for asking.

It was no surprise I found him enormously attractive.

It was just, in that village, was where I was both terrified and exhilarated to understand I might just be falling in love with him.

At the same time, the turn of my thoughts was about the other members of his family, particularly Daniel, who had dipped his toe in this pool.

I, too, had a life of wealth and privilege. I couldn’t imagine what it would feel like to turn the son of the earl’s eye and take him to my bed, and what hopes I might pin on that. Only, after he was done with me, to find myself serving his house, his family and new girlfriend, and him not giving any indication he’d shared that integral connection with me.

That didn’t excuse what Brittany did to me, but a part of me understood it.

And even if Daniel gave off the air of the bungling, handsome, likeable lad who would never quite grow up, I hoped Portia moved on from him.

She couldn’t be a taskmaster. She couldn’t keep him in line, something, Lady Jane was correct, he seemed in need of having. Portia was a woman who needed to be taken care of, not the other way around.

And she deserved strength and devotion, but she also deserved someone who wasn’t a bumbling idiot who careened from mishap to mishap, leaving damage in his wake.

“It happens, and you should know it,” Ian said low, taking my attention.

I turned my head to him. “What happens?”

“This, while being out with me.”

Okay, now I was feeling strange, in good and bad ways (mostly good) at how in my brain he was already, because I knew exactly to what he was referring.

“Truthfully, it’s at its best here, in the village,” he shared “Also in some senses, the town. People know us. We’re not a curiosity. In London, other places…”

He didn’t finish.

I did it for him. “You’re Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous, Aristocracy and Secret Royalty edition.”

His lips tipped up. “Something like that.”

I tipped my head to the side. “Have you been with women who found it difficult?”

“No. But I have been with women who’ve grown addicted to it.”

I pulled a face.

“Precisely,” he agreed.

“I haven’t escaped that, you know. Dad was a big personality. He did not shrink from the limelight. It was the opposite. And Lou’s famous.”

“And you’re beautiful.”

I shrugged and took a sip of my cider, but those words sure were nice coming from his lips.

“When you’re with me, and we’re not here, we’ll be photographed. Often,” he warned.

I drew in a breath on that.

But there was nothing for it. It came with him. I wanted him. So if we got to that point, I’d suck it up.

However, Ian needed reassuring. I knew it when he said his next.

“Portia lives life boldly. You, privately. I didn’t need investigators to tell me some things. A simple Google search, even on your name, brings up more pictures of her than you.”

“It might not be an everyday thing for me, but it is for Lou. In London, she can’t walk down the street without people staring. Dad needed security. It’s been part of my life.”

“Darling, you can’t duck your head and look cute trying and failing to hover in Lou’s shadow. With me, it’ll be inescapable.”

He had an uncanny knack at saying all the right things.

If I wasn’t falling for him, I’d find it scary.

“I feel I’ve failed after surviving multiple, attempted fake hauntings to communicate to you I’m made of some stern stuff,” I joked.

“That hasn’t escaped me. But our motto is eyes open, no?”

“I haven’t forgotten.”

“Multiple, attempted fake hauntings aside, this is our idyll. One of the reasons why I wanted you to stay here with me. When real life intrudes, things will be much different. Far more challenging.”

“I’m not the type to get addicted to that kind of attention, Ian.”

“I don’t think you are. I think you’re the type to get sick of it.”

Dear Lord.

Was he sharing vulnerability?

Even insecurity?

Only Ian could make that attractive.

“How about, with eyes open, we just be in this without worrying about what might become of it? Whatever that is will happen, no matter how hard we try to shape it,” I suggested.

He looked away, took a sip of his stout, and murmured, “She’s wise, along with gorgeous, humorous, and achingly loving.”

I pressed into him where I was settled in his side and teased, “Achingly loving?”

He was in no mood to be teased.

“You lay on the floor with Lou until the paramedics came, holding her hand and talking to her. I don’t know a single soul who would do that. And I’ll never forget witnessing it, Daphne. Not until the day I die.”

I stared up at him, throat closed.

“You come with baggage, yes,” he carried on. “But I’m profoundly aware I bring the same, and along with it an abiding inability to find my way around the rather imposing obstacle of living in complete fear that I’ll turn into my father.”

Well, goddamn.

One could say that was putting it out there.

“Honey—”

He shook his head. “No. It’s there. You need to know about it. I’ve had a lot of women. I’ve always ended it. Always, Daphne. And I hope you know with me being with you, I have exceptional taste.”

Yes.

Always saying the right thing.

“So there were many thrown away that a more adjusted man would have known better and kept,” he finished.

It was time to nip this in the bud.

“I appreciate this heartfelt honesty. It means everything, honey. Really everything. But what you’re not cyphering into this conversation is first, I’m a part of this equation, with free will and a brain in my head to make decisions for myself. And second, I’m making decisions based on the fact you haven’t hidden any of what you’re talking about. You’ve been what you promised you were. You aren’t leading me on. You aren’t hiding anything. It’s common knowledge that women want or really don’t want to grow up to be their mothers. The same with men. You’ve made it clear which way you swing. Attempting to observe this clinically, your awareness of it and ability to talk about it speaks volumes for you.”

“I haven’t run you off yet, although in a sense, I’ve tried. Perhaps it’s testing, though I hope it doesn’t feel that way, it doesn’t mean I haven’t been unconsciously doing it.”

“And again, you know yourself,” I pointed out.

He lifted his chin in acknowledgement of my words and carried on, “So prepare for this, I’ve never discussed any of this with another woman.”

“Oh,” I breathed.

“Yes,” he replied.

Wow.

That was big.

I grinned at him, clasped my hands in front of me and twisted his way, leaning against him and saying, “He likes me. He really, really likes me.”

He grinned back and said, “You’re a nitwit.”

I batted my eyelashes at him and returned, “Why, Lord Alcott, you say the sweetest things.”

He kept grinning and urged, “Drink up. Mum’s very aware of my age, but she’s still my mum. The roads are winding and dark. She doesn’t like us driving them at night. The sooner we’re home, the sooner she can stop worrying.”

I took up my cider again, noting, “You’re a very good son.”

“She needs one decent man in her life,” he murmured, taking a sip of his own drink.

But in taking mine, I watched him, struck to my core in learning something new about this man.

Mr. Honesty, Self-Own, Say the Right Thing, Thoughtfulness Personified Ian was all of this for his mother.

She had a husband with a wandering eye and a younger son who was about as deep as a bowl of water.

Ian filled in the gaps.

So yes, damnit, I was falling for him.

And even though we’d shared a lot in a short period of time, we were still very new…

But I didn’t mind in the slightest.