Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 100423 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 502(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100423 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 502(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
“Who takes care of the plants?” my mouth whispers in wonder.
“Mr. Ingram, the head gardener and his team,” Mrs. O’Brien informs formally.
Of course. One person could never take care of all these exotic and lush plants by themselves.
“I’ll send for tea and refreshments,” she says.
I turn around to tell her there is no need, but she is already halfway out of the door. Well, I guess tea would not be so bad. My mouth does feel quite dry.
My gaze skips past the incredible profusion of greenery inside; they are drawn outside. Beyond the glass walls, the gardens unfold, a sea of emerald lawns. There is a rose garden, but it is still too early for them to flower. A gravel path snakes toward a fountain, its spray catching the sun like liquid diamonds, and in the distance, yew hedges clipped into perfect waves roll toward a horizon that feels endless. It’s breathtaking, the kind of beauty that overwhelms you, and makes you feel like such a tiny creature in the great dance of the cosmos.
I have to admit, I am freaking impressed. As I’m standing here, staff in black and white uniforms load a round table with stuff I never asked for—scones with thick cream, little sandwiches, little cream cakes so pretty my mouth waters even though I’m trying to stay mad. I hold onto the thought that I didn’t want any of this. He’s making me wait, probably on purpose, pulling the same trick with this fancy spread as he did with that Tiffany lamp. That’s why I’m angry, isn’t it? He thinks he can throw nice things at me and I’ll roll over.
But man, this house… I can’t stop staring. The whole place is so unreal I want to roll my eyes just to snap out of it. How am I supposed to stay sharp when I’m surrounded by this?
I pace a bit, and my muddy boots sink into a rug so soft it’s absurd. Aubusson probably. I can’t help though, but buzz with some ideas for the cottage and so as soon as the staff are out of sight, I take my seat and pull out my phone. As quickly as I can, I snap a picture of the ceiling—the plaster swirled like a fancy dessert, so detailed it’s ridiculous. I’m caught up, my phone raised, thumb framing a shot of the ceiling’s swirling plaster ferns when his voice hits me, low and smug.
“Hello.”
My heart slams to a stop, a sick lurch that steals my breath, and for a second, the world narrows to that sound—his voice, smooth but edged, curling around me. A pause, heavy as stone, drops into the room. It’s like the air has turned thick and is clinging to my skin.
I put my phone away and turn around to face him slowly as I try to rebuild the fire I walked in with. I find him across the room watching me with those amazing eyes that make my pulse race. My anger flickers weakly, but I cling to it stubbornly, willing it to burn hotter. I am so damn ready to be furious and let the annoyance I’ve been nursing for that Tiffany lamp stunt to explode.
But when I watch him standing proudly like he owns every inch of my sanity, the words clot in my throat and refuse to budge. My breath catches, a sharp hitch I can’t hide, because as much as I hate to admit it, he’s breathtaking. I remember his hair from that first day when he stormed into my cottage—wild and tousled. Now it’s different, damp and swept away from his face in a sleek style. It frames his hard jaw, where a faint stubble dusts his skin, not the polished duke I expected, but something rugged, raw, like he’s stepped out of a fevered dream I didn’t ask for.
My eyes narrow, trying to reconcile the war inside me. Is this the same asshole who offered to buy my home? Because right now, he looks too good, too dangerous, like he’s rewritten himself just to mess with me.
“Welcome to Montrose Manor, Miss Hutton,” he says, his voice curling around my name. He crosses the flagstone floor and extends his hand, a gesture so formal it’s almost a mockery in this charged space. My heart reacts, a clumsy thud against my ribs, and before I can think properly, I stand, my hair brushing my shoulders as I move.
Then my hand is in his.
It’s a reflex I curse the second our skin touches. His hand is warm, firm, and his grip steady, whereas mine tremble. I’ve fucked up, big time. How could I just stand and greet him like he’s not the enemy? I want to bury myself in the ground.
The unblinking intensity in his piercing gray eyes strips me bare as they hold my gaze. It’s as if he’s seeing every crack in my armor. Unshakable calm radiates off him like he’s already mapped out this moment and I’m just catching up. He’s close—too close—and I feel it, the way he towers over me, his height swallowing the space until I’m craning my neck back as my heart hammers and my blood sings in my ears.