Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 76664 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76664 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
“Oh no,” Em says in an equally dramatic tone. “What befell the poor woman!?”
“Her reputation was ruined by a lecherous earl with wicked intentions.”
“Oh no, not a lecherous earl with wicked intentions!”
“We joke, but it really was quite awful. Apparently, in early summer, 1814, at the first ball of the season, Cordelia shared a kiss with the Earl of Swythemore. They were out in his rose garden, alone, safe from detection…or so they must have thought.” I step closer as I whisper, “But by morning, the gossip was everywhere. Someone had seen them in each other’s arms. The news spread through the Ton like wildfire. Within days, it had become a massive scandal, and Cordelia was on the verge of ruin. The only way to salvage her reputation was for the Earl to propose marriage.”
Emily’s eyes narrow. “Come on, Earl, don’t drop the ball.”
“Oh, he dropped the ball. Dropped it big time,” I confirm. “He claimed she’d thrown herself at him, hoping to trap him into matrimony, and he was simply an innocent victim of her feminine scheming. Classic ‘he said, she said,’ but that was all it took to ruin a woman in 1814.”
“It’s about all it takes now,” Emily says with a roll of her eyes. “But at least we can work to earn a living these days.”
“Indeed,” I agree, “Thankfully, Cordelia’s father was a good egg. He didn’t force her to marry one of the less appealing fellows she would have been able to land in her disgraced state. He allowed her to live here, with him, and arranged for her big brother to take care of her after he passed. She spent her entire life behind these walls, rarely leaving the house after her disgrace. But it wasn’t all bad.” I glance around us. “This was her haven. She became a skilled botanist. Created some beautiful hybrid roses and a strain of wheat that was resistant to mold.”
Emily sighs as she sets her sleeping charge down on the potting bench. Nuggy snuffles before sprawling into a full sploot and continuing to catch up on her beauty sleep. “Well, that’s good, but… Damn, being a woman has been pretty shitty for most of recorded history.”
I nod. “It has. The patriarchy’s a beastly business. Especially here, and especially in the 1800s. I like to think I would have been a decent sort, but noble men really could get away with murder back then, so…” I exhale a soft laugh. “I probably would have been a terrible rake who gambled the family money away at my club and ravaged innocent young ladies in gardens.”
She cocks her head, her brow furrowing. “No, I don’t think so.”
“No?”
She shakes her head. “No. You’re a good one, Oliver Featherswallow. A very good one, actually, even though you came off a tiny bit twatty at first.”
“Your British slang is coming along nicely,” I say. “But that should be ‘a bit of a twat’, not ‘a bit twatty.’ Please try to remember that in the future.”
“Got it. I’ll keep that in mind.” She smiles, soft and unguarded, a smile that feels like it’s just for me.
And suddenly I can’t keep my guilty conscience to myself.
“I’m not always good,” I admit in a huskier voice. “I’ve been thinking impure thoughts about you nearly every hour of every day. And I’m seriously tempted to use that mistletoe above your head as an excuse to ravage you in the solarium.”
Her eyes fly up, landing on the pearl berries hung between two palm fronds.
When her gaze returns to mine, her pupils are wide, dark.
Determined.
“Well, if you need an excuse,” she whispers.
She doesn’t have to ask me twice.
One moment, we’re frozen in the dark, a sleeping puppy snoring on the potting bench between us.
The next, she’s in my arms.
Chapter Fourteen
EMILY
Ipull him closer, and suddenly the green icing on his hideous sweater is lighting up the shadows, throbbing in time with each eager beat of my heart.
We shouldn’t do this.
At least not without having a serious talk.
I have no idea what he wants, what I want. Or how this could possibly work with all the obstacles between us. But God, his lips taste even better than I remember. Like punch and holiday magic and Olly, this kind, clever man who is so much more than a “spare.”
“Every time the tabloids call you ‘the spare,’ I want to punch someone,” I confess as his fingers curl around the back of my neck.
“Why?” His thumb presses that spot below my ear, the one that sends shivers all the way down my spine.
“Because it’s mean.” I nip at his lower lip. “You’re not a spare, you’re a person. You’re…Olly.”
He hums low in his throat, kissing me harder before whispering against my lips, “I love it when you call me Olly. It makes me happy and hard, all at the same time.” He shifts his hips, proving he isn’t lying.