Page 31 of The Spinster & the Sock

“Barbecues, tailgating,” Blaze blurts. “Or wet T-shirt competitions. On a good day, all three. Cold beer, baby back ribs, and bodacious babes.”

“I would ask. But honestly, at this point, I am afraid to.” I gesture vaguely at the passing ladies while we slowly make our way along the path around the park. “At least a quarter of these ladies are wearing my designs, and I enjoy seeing my handiwork in action.” I pause, giving the pond a wary glance. “I also enjoy the drama. It isn’t a proper promenade if someone doesn’t make a fool of themselves.”

Blaze takes his hat off, and I see sweat forming on his brow. “Let’s just hope I am not the fool today,” he murmurs nervously as we both clamp eyes on Viscount Edwardson making his way in our direction.

“Good God,” I squeak, wondering if it would be terribly obvious for us to spiral in the opposite direction and walk away really fast. Before I can form any sort of escape plan, he speaks. Loudly.

“Mrs. Hollows.” The greeting is cool and condescending. “I have had the most interesting conversation with Miss Eliza Winthrop just now.”

“Good God,” Blaze imitates me, and we exchange miserable glances.

“I find it rather remarkable that Miss Winthrop has anything interesting to say.” Moments like these remind me why I’ve never quite felt at home in polite society. My husband, grunting to avoid laughing out loud beside me, is the only reason I don’t feel so out of place.

“It’s the feathers,” he chimes to the visible confusion of the viscount. “I recently heard rumors that plumage on one’s head significantly reduces your IQ.”

I want to ask, but I don’t. I shake my head and smile feebly at Edwardson, hoping our mindless chatter has convinced him to find a new subject to prey on. Unfortunately for myself, the gossip is delicious, and he announces far too loudly, “In this case, I was hanging on Miss Winthrop’s every word.” He takes a step closer to Blaze. “Tell me, sir, how does one break a bed? Spare no details, I insist.”

Blaze lands two flat palms on his belly and makes some grotesque gurgling sound I surmise he intends to communicate pride with. “Being overweight tends to help.”

“Lynyrd, darling,” I squeak through my shocked giggle, taking far too much enjoyment in Edwardson’s stupid stare. “Don’t tease the Viscount. What if he’s looking for technical guidance?” I lean closer to my husband and whisper, but not quietly enough, for some wicked little part of me wants Edwardson to hear, “He is still on the marriage market, dear. Perhaps he’s doing something wrong.”

“Josephine,” Blaze chortles, taking hold of my arm to move past the stunned Viscount with an awkward and courteous nod. Once out of earshot, he glances down at me, and I am certain he’s torn between pride and shock. “What did that poor fool of a man ever do to you?” He grins and continues along the path leading away from the pond while muttering something about the damn useless thing.

“He doesn’t take no for an answer,” I say pointedly. “I imagine something must be truly wrong with him if he spent seasons unmarried and surrounded by eligible women and he still pursued me.”

At this, Blaze absent-mindedly chews his lower lip for a moment before shaking his auburn head. “No,” he disagrees. “That’s probably the only intelligent thing I’ve heard of anyone here doing.”

“Blaze Lynyrd Hollows,” I say stoically. “You should not be flirting with me. You’re as good as gone.” I allude to our impending journey. “I’m optimistic about this trip. I think it will work. You’ll be seeing your mother and father soon.”

His arm tightens around my hand, and Blaze appears to walk a bit taller. “As much fun as I have had with you here, darling little wife, I do miss my home.”

My heart stills, and I purse my lips into a weak smile. If I am honest with myself, though I’ll miss him, I am ready for him to go. It is time. It is what is best for both of us, and the longer he is here, the longer I dread the inevitable, which means the kindest thing to be done is for his time-travel attempts to finally be successful. “Yes,” I agree at last. “You shall return home with an amazing story, and I shall be a widow, which is far more socially acceptable than spinsterhood.”

A group of peacocks in petticoats strut past and offer brief salutations before continuing on, at which point Blaze replies, “I likely won’t tell anyone about this.” He speaks as if it is a confession. While the idea of disappearing out of his life, his story—even his memory—is painful, it is perfectly reasonable.

“It is preposterous,” I sigh. “We don’t need them thinking you’re out of your wits.”

“Darlin’,” he reminds me. “They already think that.”

Cockblocking Coachmen

Blaze

A dizzying mix of emotions is swirling around in my head—imagine your brain making an emotion-based jungle juice, minus the Igloo cooler. On one hand, I’m going to see fucking Stonehenge; on the other, I could be home by the weekend. But there’s a third hand where I just spent three days in a carriage, and a fourth where I have to say goodbye to Jo—again. You would think for as many times as we’ve done this that it would be easier…

I’m feeling better about this attempt than I did about the last four. We were grasping at straws, and I was close to asking if it would be worth chartering a ship to America, only to jump overboard as it passed through the Bering Sea. What if it was a one-way door—sea to London? This trip has to work, or it would suggest that my favorite nine-book series was, in fact, fiction, and that would make me sad.

After failing to return home by any of my nine different dips in the Regent’s Park pond, plus the incident with the shoes, I had switched to digging through a travel guide of sorts—complete with maps and everything. In turn, we had been visiting every ancient site I discovered within a day’s ride.

Did you know there are remnants of a Roman wall in London? I didn’t either. The ghost of an ancient gate sits on the other side of the city, and I had convinced myself that walking through the ruin would send me home. It didn’t, so I kept reading, and that’s when I realized Stonehenge was just outside of town. Of course, just outside of London means one thing in 2025 and another in 1813. What would be a few hours by car was actually looking like a three-day carriage ride both there and back. It took a little rearranging and convincing for Jo and me both to clear our work schedules enough for a full week away. Jo had insisted I tell Albion I was coming back. If this attempt wasn’t successful, I would still want my job, and if it did work, Jo didn’t need anyone suggesting my disappearance was premeditated.

I could tell you that the entire carriage ride was awful, and you would probably believe me, but the truth is, it hasn’t been all bad. When we left the modiste, Jo had taken the seat at the rear of the carriage, leaving me the front, with my back to the coachman. I made it as far as the first stop to let the horses have a break before I was begging Jo to swap places. I get carsick easily, and facing forward usually helps. Turns out she’s the same way, meaning the whole trip we’ve been tucked thigh to thigh with my arm situated on the backrest behind her. It was practical, otherwise our shoulders would be crushed together and I’m bigger than her, so it would be uncomfortable, I’m sure…

Anyway, here we are. Another few hours and we’ll reach the last inn on our route, and in the morning, we’ll make the final little jump over to Stonehenge.

“Mister Hollows, we’re breakin’ the horses!” the coachman hollers as the carriage slows to a stop. “Last one ’fore we arrive at the inn. Might as well stay put. We’ll be quick with it.” The coach shifts as he dismounts, and the horses nicker in excitement. Now that I’m listening for it, I can hear the unmistakable sound of water and lean towards the window, catching sight of the river we’re stopped beside.

“You know what’s wild? I trust these old stone bridges you have more than anything we have in the future. We have these big ass metal bridges and thanks to the internet, I’ve seen about thirty-too-many videos of the damn things failing and crashing to the ground with cars on them.” I turn from the window to find Jo blinking at me, eyebrows raised comically high. “What?”