Page 51 of A Change of Location
“Poppy suggested we take them on a run—with Jewel on her lead—and by the time we returned to the house they’d formed a pack bond. I wasn’t worried about leaving Ariel and Jewel alone. Ron’s off duty tonight, so Nico is keeping an eye on them.” She speared a slice of ham with her fork and reached for her knife. “Who is Lord Cary?”
“Me. I’m also Baron Latimer. Although by law my offspring will be commoners, the eldest son’s courtesy title would be Earl Cary. If he takes after me, he’ll call himself Rufus Latimer.”
She looked up. “I wonder how he’ll feel about that for his first name.”
“You make a good point. I’ve always been thankful my parents put Martin before Rufus and Antony when they had me christened.”
“Rufus. Antony. You could be a character in a P. G. Wodehouse novel.”
He savored a mouthful of wine, relishing its fruitiness. “My relationship with the little lad might start off better if he’s Richard. For my father. I could also insert Cadbury, in recognition of our Arthurian connection. Although everyone would assume it was because of the chocolates.”
“You’re related to King Arthur?”
“Presumably. A cousin, many times removed. If he ever existed, that is. And procreated. According to legend, that red dragon on the Somerset flag belonged to him.” He put down his wineglass. “Dragon. Now there’s a staggeringly good name for a boy.”
She laughed until tears filled her eyes. Drinkers and diners looked over at their table, no doubt wondering what he’d said to amuse his fetching companion.
“This is... surreal,” she gasped. “I’m on a date with an English lord whose family tree includes King Arthur. Pinch me.”
“With pleasure.” He grinned. “Soon as I get you home.”
She flattened both palms on the table, saying in an altered tone, “I almost booked my Boston flight yesterday.”
He seized one of her wrists. “You can’t.”
“I have to.”
“Why?”
She pulled her hand away and waved it aimlessly. “Lots of reasons.”
“When we met, you planned to be in England for months and months. Why should that change?”
“Getting fired is bad enough without being deported. My work visa requires me to be employed. By Hartcliffe Studios. I’m not. Which means I’ll soon be in big, big trouble.”
“I can get that sorted. Rather, Dan Wheeler will. He handled all the immigration paperwork when Kateryna Bereza came over from Ukraine. As a war refugee, her situation was far more complicated than yours.”
“I’m serious, Martin.”
“So am I.”
Their server presented the main course, slices of roast fowl artistically arranged on plates, exquisitely sauced and garnished. Hannah, doubtless to reinforce her intention of returning to Boston, described its North End, crammed with Italian eateries. He shared tales from his time in the kitchen at the Venice restaurant. They reviewed the dessert menu but didn’t order, capping off their meal with liqueurs instead—limoncello for her, grappa for him.
Driving back to Stanwell, he veered off the road into a lay-by.
“I can’t wait a moment longer to kiss you again.” Their lips met and melded together. “You’re lemon-flavored,” he murmured.
He ran his hands under her silk shift, acquainting himself with the warm, soft flesh of her inner thighs and the slight swell of her hips. “I’ve been imagining this,” he confessed, “ever since the party in your London hotel suite. You wore this same dress.”
“When you lured me to Stanwell House, you said it has twenty bedrooms. Why are we writhing around in your car?”
“Privacy. No staff. No dogs. Just us.” He drew back so he could read her face. “You won’t mind if I turn up at your bedroom door later?”
“I’m counting on it.”
***
Hannah came awake with a vague sense that it might be morning, although the thick curtains gave no hint of whether the sun had already risen. Her phone could confirm the hour, but it was buried beneath the garments piled on the chintz armchair.
