“My mother finally took over the business when my grandfather became ill, and she took the opportunity to renovate the interior and the storefront and began carrying higher end clothing lines for business men,” he continued. “She took a financial risk in doing so, but it paid off. The shop established a clientele of bankers and other high rollers in the financial industry.”
“Men from all over England learned of the quality of goods and services, and flocked to the shop. That’s how my father met her. He frequented Leeds on business, buying his clothes almost exclusively from my grandfather’s shop.”
“Well, that explains it,” she said, tilting her head.
“Explains what?” he asked, eyebrows drawn in confusion.
“Why you have an innate sense of style and excellent taste in clothes,” she said, laughing.
He actually blushed. “Thank you.”
She wasn’t sure if she’d ever seen a grown man blush. It endeared her, and made her feel a little empowered.
“Does your mother still have the shop?” she asked.
“No. She finally sold it to a clothing conglomerate for a small fortune after my brother and I came along.”
The remainder of dinner passed pleasantly with additional shared stories of families, childhoods, and life in general. She loved watching him eat, using knife and fork in tandem, European-style.
Over dessert and tea, he asked, “Do you have a wish list of sights and activities for this week?”
“Well, this is not the first time I’ve been to Oxfordshire, but on my previous trip I only passed through the city briefly and did not see much of the countryside other than from a car window.”
“Did you come with your family?”
“Um, no, my ex-husband,” she answered, swallowing hard.
“Oh . . . I see.” He wore a slight frown.
Great. Why did I say that, she admonished. Why wasn’t I more circumspect?
“Well, there’s a great deal to see and do.” His face brightened and his smile returned. “I’m sure a smart girl like yourself has done her homework . . . what’s on your list?”
“Oh, I guess the usual sites: Blenheim Palace, Woodstock, the Costwolds, Chipping Campden, Castle Combe . . . and I think you’ve got some rather old stones south of here that are a big tourist attraction.”
Playing along with her banter, he responded, “Ah yes, I believe those rather old stones are called Stonehenge, or something like that. I’m sure we can find them. If not, we’ll ask the locals.”
He grinned playfully, making her heart do a little tap dance in her chest.
“Let me give some thought to the best route in order to take in all the things on your wish list, and perhaps some things that aren’t on the list but should be.” He tilted his head, “I could pick you up out front at say, nine?”
“That sounds perfect.” She couldn’t hide her enthusiasm.
When the bill came, she reached for it to put it on her room bill, and he politely but firmly grabbed her wrist and took the bill from her hand. His firm hand left a warm, but invisible impression on her skin.
“What do you think you’re doing?” he asked, his tone reproachful. “Your Yankee dollars are no good here. It’s my treat.”
“Alex,” she said with a sigh, “you don’t have to buy my dinner. Believe it or not, I do have meals budgeted into my vacation.”
“I’m sure that you do, but I cannot allow you to pay. It’s a guy thing, something about the Y-chromosome.”
“Well, genetic or not, I cannot allow you to pay for everything this week, and if that’s your plan, we should get that straightened out here and now. If you’re acting as my tour guide, shouldn’t there be some remuneration for those services?”
“Oh, we can discuss remuneration for my services later,” he teased, looking up from the bill he held in his hand.
She sat back in surprise. Was he suggesting that she repay him by jumping into bed with him? Even from the little she knew of him, that seemed out of character. Was she wrong about that? “I beg your pardon?” she asked in dismay.
He looked up again and read the expression on her face. He actually blanched. “Sarah, I didn’t mean . . . well, what I meant was, you buying lunch or something along those lines. I can see how that sounded. Please accept my apology. My attempt at a joke was in poor taste.”
Sarah didn’t doubt his sincerity. This was more in line with what she’d learned of his character thus far. “Apology accepted. Perhaps I wasn’t far off about those deep-seated trust issues,” she sighed, shrugging her shoulders.
“No, just cautious, as any woman traveling alone should be. Which begs the question: why did you agree to have a strange man chauffer you around all week? Aren’t you breaking your rule about dating strangers? And didn’t your mother teach you not to accept rides from strangers?” he asked with a devastating grin.
She had to look away a moment to get a grasp on her thoughts. “Is this a date?”
“Of course. What else would it be?”
She wasn’t sure how she felt about that. “Well, I guess after dinner tonight, we are no longer strangers. Besides, you came with the Lady Clara stamp of approval,” she explained, quite pleased with her rational response.
“Yes, I’ve succeeded in pulling the wool over my grandmother’s eyes,” he said, wringing his hands like a diabolical villain. “I am an actor, you know,” he said, turning his attention back to the bill.
She noted he was left-handed, like Adrian. Stop! Again with the comparisons.
“I doubt anyone could pull the wool over Lady Clara’s eyes,” she said, dubious, as he walked around to pull out her chair for her.
“No. Even the great Houdini couldn’t deceive that dear lady.”
It was much later than she thought. Since the light this time of year lingered well past nine-thirty p.m., it was easy to lose track of time. Of course, she’d also been so absorbed in their conversation that she didn’t realize how late it was. Oh, who was she kidding? She’d been absorbed in Alex.
He walked her to the lobby. At the foot of the stairs leading to the guest rooms, he reached out, and, taking her wrist, leaned down to give her a very sweet kiss on her cheek as he whispered, “Goodnight, Sarah Edwards. Pleasant dreams.”
Sunday morning dawned cool and damp, so Sarah dressed in layers in case it warmed up later. Wearing trouser jeans, a sleeveless blouse, and a sweater, she grabbed a jacket and hurried down the stairs, feeling like a teenage girl on her first date, slowing as she came through the lobby and out the door, not wanting to appear too eager.
He waited outside the hotel, leaning up against the passenger door of a car, arms casually folded across his chest. The Ralph Lauren image came to mind again.
“Good morning,” he said, beaming, as he pushed off the car and opened the door for her. “‘She looks as clear as morning roses newly washed with dew,’”
“Good morning,” she said, then added, “Thank you,” feeling a blush crawl up her face at his compliment.
He wore a pair of jeans and a cashmere v-neck sweater in dark blue, with a white T-shirt underneath. She noted with curiosity that his hair was still damp, like he’d just towel-dried it on his way out the door. He walked around to the driver’s side.
“Whose car?” Sarah asked as he climbed into the driver’s seat.
He turned to look at her before pulling away from the curb. “I borrowed Trevor’s car for the day.”
It was a Renault of some kind, rather small by American standards, but not atypical for European cars. She could smell his scent in the coziness of the warm interior. It was woodsy, with notes of bergamot and cinnamon; a rich, masculine scent.
“That’s very generous of him.”
“He doesn’t have any plans for today, so is in no rush to get it back. Besides, Oxford is a cycling city. If he does need to run out, he’ll use his bike.” He turned to her. “By the way, tell me again why you didn’t hire a car . . .”
“I don’t think I told you at all, but the reason being that I didn’t want to drive on the wrong side of the car down the wrong side of the road.”
“You Yanks, you think unless the thing is done your way, it’s done wrong.” His teasing look took any sting from the comment.
“‘One man's ways may be as good as another's, but we all like our own best,’” she quipped, quoting Jane Austen, then winced. Two literary quotes in less than five minutes. “Don’t you just hate those pretentious intellectuals who go around quoting literature?”
“Yes,” he replied with a grin.
“How many do you think we’ll have by day’s end?”
“Between the two of us, I’d venture at least seven, maybe more.”
Her laughter bubbled up like champagne, sweet and effervescent.
“Oversleep this morning?” she asked, pointedly referring to his still damp hair.
“Er, no,” he said, appearing somewhat chagrinned, “actually Trevor and I went for a run this morning and ran into an old friend, uh, no pun intended, and got waylaid for a bit.”
“You stayed with Trevor last night?”
“It was easier than driving a half hour to Rutherford and then back this morning.”
“I see.” His damp, tousled hair was sexy. She wanted to run her fingers through it. “Where are we off to today?” she returned cheerfully.
“I thought we would set off in search of those mysterious stones to the south,” he said, “and then head back north to the prettiest village in England, Castle Combe, perhaps stopping at a lovely little spot in between.”
“In between?” she questioned.
“Oh, I have a little surprise I think you’ll like.”
They headed south out of town. She wasn’t good with surprises. She would needle the person planning the surprise until she got it out of him or her. Ann and Becca gave up a long time ago. “Don’t I even get a hint about where the in between is?”
His cryptic hint of ‘think
Pride and Prejudice’
did not help. “Just so you know, I’ve already been to Chawton House and Winchester as part of the Oxford course on Jane Austen,” she supplied, hoping this would narrow the possibilities.
“Oh, I know. It’s neither one of those places,” he responded vaguely. He wore the grin she was beginning to recognize as mischievous. “You might as well give up and enjoy the trip, because you won’t be able to guess.”
She sat back in her seat in a huff, and to her annoyance, he turned and laughed at her. She pointedly ignored him, as if that were even possible, instead staring out the window at the passing scenery. The sun began to burn off the morning mist. Perhaps it would be another nice day after all. Silence filled the car, but it was a companionable silence.
When they arrived at Stonehenge, the morning mists had not yet lifted from the surrounding grasslands, giving the mystical site a strange, ethereal quality befitting its fabled history.
As they strolled around the ancient monoliths, a fresh breeze began to push the damp mist away, allowing more of the sun to penetrate, but not enough to chase away the chill.
Using Sarah’s camera, Alex took the obligatory goofy touristy pictures of her, including the one that looked like she was holding up one of the leaning stones. Another couple visiting from Ireland offered to take their photo, and they exchanged the favor by taking a photo of them with their two red-headed kids.
The cold wind picked up across the plains, sending a shiver through Sarah, prompting Alex to ask if she was ready to return to the car park. She nodded. “‘
I have no enthusiasm for nature which the slightest chill will not instantly destroy.’”
“George Sand. That’s three.” He smiled and he took her elbow, guiding her across the uneven ground.
She could feel the warmth of his hand through the layers of clothes. Once at the car park, Alex opened the car door for her. Before she could swing her legs into the car, an errant gust of wind blew something into her eye.
“Oh!” she gasped. She immediately went to rub it.
Alex pulled her hand away and asked with concern, “What’s wrong?”
“It’s nothing . . . I think something blew into my eye.”
“That doesn’t sound like nothing . . . let me take a look,” he said as he knelt down beside the car and gently placed his thumb on her upper eyelid, telling her to look up, then to look down.
She tried to hide her embarrassment by joking, “So, although you’re not an eye doctor, you’ve played one on TV?”
He chuckled and replied, “Be still. I need total concentration while I examine my patient.”
She obeyed.
“I don’t see anything obvious. Perhaps it was a grain of sand.” He released her eyelid, but kept his hand on her face. “How does it feel now?” he asked, cocking his head to the side.
She blinked it a couple of times. “It feels better. Thank you.”
She thought to swing her legs into the car, but his warm, coffee-colored eyes held hers, his thumb caressing her cheek, arresting any thoughts of further movement on her part.
She watched as his eyes moved to her mouth and his thumb followed, brushing ever so softly across her bottom lip. Mesmerized, she held her breath. Just the anticipation of the coming kiss was as potent, as intoxicating, as any kiss she’d previously experienced. Her lips tingled with it.
He leaned in, hesitated briefly, looking into her eyes again, before gently kissing her mouth.
She sighed, closed her eyes. His warm and soft lips tenderly captured her lower lip. He pulled back, his eyes on her lips again.
As she leaned in and cautiously returned his kiss, he placed his hands on the sides of her face and pressed his lips to hers.
Her arms rose of their own volition, clasping her hands around his neck, running her fingers through his hair. All thoughts of her self-imposed impulse-embargo fled. Why deny herself something so delectable? What was the harm?
She didn’t know how long they kissed. An eternity, yet not long enough. The sound of laughter from kids returning to the car park brought them back to reality. One more brief kiss, and he was on his feet as she swung her legs into the car, allowing him to close the door.
She didn’t take her eyes off him as he walked around the front of the car. He climbed in, started the car and backed out of the parking space before looking at her, flashing a wary smile. She tentatively returned the smile as he pulled out of the car park.
They rode in silence for a few minutes, each lost in their own thoughts.
She didn’t know what his thoughts were, but hers were chaotic. Her first thought:
Wow! That kiss was . . . delicious!
She couldn’t resist the urge, so she pulled her lower lip between her teeth and ran her tongue across it. She could still taste him . . . could still feel the warmth and pressure of his mouth on hers. Consequently, she could also feel the heat rising in her face from her unruly thoughts.
Her second more rational thought:
How did this happen?
She mentally shook her head, admonishing herself. This . . . whatever this was . . . acquaintance; friendship; fling; one-week-stand . . . was dangerous. She was not ready to face this dilemma. She’d been diligent since her divorce not to place herself in this situation.
“So,”—his voice punctured the silence—“are you ready for your surprise?” he asked with boyish enthusiasm.
“You mean the kiss wasn’t my surprise?” she asked, turning to face him with one brow arched.
He had the grace to flush a little, but then his mouth lifted, flashing a dimple. “Okay, your other surprise.”
“Well, in that case then, yes, I’m ready for my other surprise. What is it?”
“Remember the hint I gave you—”
“The one that was useless?”
He chuckled. “Yes, that one. There is a little village north of here whose claim to fame is having been one of the locations for the 1995 BBC production of
Pride & Prejudice.
Lacock village had the honor of being ‘cast’ as Meryton.”
“In fact, the Red Lion in Lacock served as the exterior of the assembly rooms for the Meryton dance where Elizabeth and Darcy first meet. I’m sure you’ll recognize it.”
Turning off the main road, he continued. “I thought you would enjoy seeing it and walking the streets where Lizzy and the Bennett sisters met up with the likes of Wickham, the officers, and of course, Darcy and Bingley.”
She sat there a moment, open-mouthed, pleasantly surprised by his thoughtfulness.
“Of course if you would find that boring, we can to go to Castle Combe straightaway . . .” His voice trailed off.
“No, I would love to see Lacock. I was just thinking how thoughtful your surprise was.”
He smiled, appearing relieved. “Good. We can stroll the streets of Lacock and have lunch before we continue on to Castle Combe.”
The sun shone in earnest now, and Sarah felt more lighthearted than she’d felt in a long time. So much for her avowed disinterest in men. For better or for worse, all concerns over protecting her heart were forgotten.
Later that night, she looked back over the day she’d spent in the company of the charming and amiable Lord Rutherford. Lacock had been a wonderful side excursion. She truly couldn’t remember the last time she so thoroughly enjoyed a day. There was no schedule, and although they’d tentatively planned to visit Castle Combe after Lacock, nothing was compulsory.
The thirteenth century village with its quaint streets lined by row upon row of beautifully preserved cottages, some lime-washed and half-timbered, others of golden stone, made Lacock the perfect example of an English country village. Besides
Pride & Prejudice
, it served as a location for
Moll Flanders, Emma,
and most recently, for the Harry Potter films.
They lingered as long as they liked in Lacock, lunching at a fifteenth century inn with charming wood beam ceilings, stone fireplaces, flagstone floors, and horse-hair plasterwork.
Alex was so patient, even while she dallied in Lacock’s shops. She purchased a book on the making of
Pride & Prejudice
from the National Trust Store, intending to savor it on the flight home.
They stopped at the various locations used in
Pride & Prejudice,
tossing out remembered lines from the movie, with him laughing at her lame acting skills.
His portrayal of the ridiculous Mr. Collins launched her into unrelenting giggles. But even with the absurdity of Mr. Collins’ proposal to Lizzy, her heart fluttered when taking her hand in his, his other hand to his heart, Alex said, “‘And now nothing remains, but to assure you, in the most animated language, of the violence of my affections!’”
She hugged a pillow to her chest. She didn’t know the violence of Alex’s affections, but the violence of her own affections was growing, and it was only the third day since she’d met him.
Of all the unexpected events for which she had contingency plans: lost luggage, missed connections, stolen credit cards, meeting and falling for an earl was not among those events.
She didn’t want to engage in too much introspection, because she was having too much fun. Ann deemed that one of her character flaws, over-thinking things, when she should just go with the flow. Ironic, because she hadn’t over-thought Adrian, and look where that had gotten her.
She sighed. Alex was refined and intelligent; masculine and athletic; funny, gregarious, and sweet; she could go on and on. She’d already learned to recognize what his smiles meant. There was the sweet smile, which he wore when he talked about his mother or grandmother; the mischievous smile, which appeared just before he said something he knew would aggravate her; and there was the self-conscious smile he wore after the episode in the Stonehenge car park.
She felt both comfortable around him and giddy at the same time. There was no denying his sex appeal. Every time he touched her, even an innocent hand on her back when he guided her through doors, sent shivers along her spine.
She was always very much aware of his presence. His scent, which still lingered on her clothes when she’d taken them off tonight, was delicious; a subtle blend of his cologne and his own masculine scent.
She realized that her notion of Adrian as romantic hero paled in comparison. Alex was Darcy, Knightly, and Captain Wentworth all rolled into one appealing package. That, more than anything else, worried her most. Alex embodied all of her romantic fantasies, so how could she not fall for him?
But on a deeper level, she already felt as if she could tell him anything. He was such a good listener, making her feel as if there was no one else in the world, much less in the room, but her. He wasn’t judgmental, only supporting and understanding.
This was insane. She wasn’t ready for a relationship, any relationship, much less a long, no, really
long distance relationship. They lived four thousand miles apart. Tomorrow she was going to tell him that this—thing—couldn’t go anywhere.
But then what if she’s making more out of it than he is?
That would be humiliating.
She groaned and rolled over. What should she do? She wished she could talk to Becca or Ann about it . . . but then again, they would only encourage it.
Wrangling with this Gordian Knot she’d gotten herself into was going to keep her up all night, and short of the bold stroke of telling him she didn’t want to see him anymore, which she was not willing to do, she saw no resolution that would safeguard against a broken heart.