my good man?”
“Mistress Peaches Alexander,” Ambrose said in that mild tone that was all the more infuriating for serenity. “You recently fed her at your father’s table, if memory serves.”
“Which only added to my dislike of her,” Stephen said, hardly able to believe he was talking about anything with a man who looked like he’d just stepped out of a seventeenth-century Scottish portrait. “I find her culinary judgment suspicious at best.”
“There’s more to life than steak.”
“Ha,” Stephen said, because it seemed like the proper thing to say. “First go the prime cuts of Angus beef, then bangers and mash, then steak and kidney pie. Then where are you left?”
“With unclogged arteries?”
“I’ll take my chances, thank you just the same.”
Ambrose rose and came to stand next to him, clasping his hands behind his back. “She’s beautiful, which you cannot deny.”
“She’s a Yank.”
“She has a generous heart.”
“And an unfortunate lack of familiarity with the necessity of pressing one’s clothes.”
Ambrose looked at him in amusement. “You can admit you fancy her, you know.”
“I don’t,” Stephen lied. He wasn’t sure that had come out quite strongly enough, so he made another attempt. “I can hardly bear to be in the same room with her.”
“Why not?”
Why not? Stephen hardly knew where to begin. Because even though he’d known her, if it could be called that based only on things Tess had said, for years yet never managed to encounterher despite her numerous visits to England, he hadn’t expected to look at her, fresh-faced Yank that she was, and fall head over heels for her the moment he’d laid eyes on her. Because after the first hello, his usual smooth, suave conversation had completely deserted him and he’d been left with only an ever-increasing list of stupid things he’d said when he hadn’t meant to.
Because when he was in the same room with her, he found himself turned immediately into a gawky, tongue-tied sixteen-year-old who was so gobsmacked by the goddess within reach that he consistently and thoroughly made an idiot of himself at every turn.
That afternoon had been an aberration in the course of their relationship. He’d managed to sit next to her on the sofa and keep his composure, but that had only been because he’d been concentrating so fully on making certain that everyone in the room thought Peaches was Tess. Once they’d been outside, he’d resumed his alter ego as a complete arse and things had proceeded as they usually did.
“Stephen?”
Stephen looked at Ambrose MacLeod. “Ah,” he said, grasping for the thread of the stalled conversation, “I can’t stand the woman because apart from her dietary delusions, she’s a fixer, and I don’t need to be fixed. She would organize everything from my socks to my files and leave me unable to find either.”
“And that would be so terrible?” Ambrose asked.
Stephen would have answered, but the other ghosts there had ceased with their bellowing of threats and battle cries, put up their swords, and were now quaffing companionable mugs of ale. He steeled himself for the worst.
He wasn’t disappointed.
Fulbert pulled up his chair and sat down with a contented sigh. “Now the true work’s been done for the day, I’ll turn me mind to yer wee problem, young Stephen.”
Stephen decided resuming his seat was the wisest course of action. He managed to fall into it with a decent bit of grace, but that was, he was certain, sheer luck. “Good of you.”
“Now,” Fulbert said, pointing at Stephen with his mug and looking rather stern, “we understand there’s a bit of hesitation about this fancy entertainment upcoming.”
Stephen felt himself frowning. “Entertainment?”
“The ball,” Hugh said wistfully, looking as if he might rather have wished to be going himself. “The fancy dress ball at Kenneworth House.”
Fulbert shot Hugh a look. “’Tis hardly a house.
“Mistress Peaches Alexander,” Ambrose said in that mild tone that was all the more infuriating for serenity. “You recently fed her at your father’s table, if memory serves.”
“Which only added to my dislike of her,” Stephen said, hardly able to believe he was talking about anything with a man who looked like he’d just stepped out of a seventeenth-century Scottish portrait. “I find her culinary judgment suspicious at best.”
“There’s more to life than steak.”
“Ha,” Stephen said, because it seemed like the proper thing to say. “First go the prime cuts of Angus beef, then bangers and mash, then steak and kidney pie. Then where are you left?”
“With unclogged arteries?”
“I’ll take my chances, thank you just the same.”
Ambrose rose and came to stand next to him, clasping his hands behind his back. “She’s beautiful, which you cannot deny.”
“She’s a Yank.”
“She has a generous heart.”
“And an unfortunate lack of familiarity with the necessity of pressing one’s clothes.”
Ambrose looked at him in amusement. “You can admit you fancy her, you know.”
“I don’t,” Stephen lied. He wasn’t sure that had come out quite strongly enough, so he made another attempt. “I can hardly bear to be in the same room with her.”
“Why not?”
Why not? Stephen hardly knew where to begin. Because even though he’d known her, if it could be called that based only on things Tess had said, for years yet never managed to encounterher despite her numerous visits to England, he hadn’t expected to look at her, fresh-faced Yank that she was, and fall head over heels for her the moment he’d laid eyes on her. Because after the first hello, his usual smooth, suave conversation had completely deserted him and he’d been left with only an ever-increasing list of stupid things he’d said when he hadn’t meant to.
Because when he was in the same room with her, he found himself turned immediately into a gawky, tongue-tied sixteen-year-old who was so gobsmacked by the goddess within reach that he consistently and thoroughly made an idiot of himself at every turn.
That afternoon had been an aberration in the course of their relationship. He’d managed to sit next to her on the sofa and keep his composure, but that had only been because he’d been concentrating so fully on making certain that everyone in the room thought Peaches was Tess. Once they’d been outside, he’d resumed his alter ego as a complete arse and things had proceeded as they usually did.
“Stephen?”
Stephen looked at Ambrose MacLeod. “Ah,” he said, grasping for the thread of the stalled conversation, “I can’t stand the woman because apart from her dietary delusions, she’s a fixer, and I don’t need to be fixed. She would organize everything from my socks to my files and leave me unable to find either.”
“And that would be so terrible?” Ambrose asked.
Stephen would have answered, but the other ghosts there had ceased with their bellowing of threats and battle cries, put up their swords, and were now quaffing companionable mugs of ale. He steeled himself for the worst.
He wasn’t disappointed.
Fulbert pulled up his chair and sat down with a contented sigh. “Now the true work’s been done for the day, I’ll turn me mind to yer wee problem, young Stephen.”
Stephen decided resuming his seat was the wisest course of action. He managed to fall into it with a decent bit of grace, but that was, he was certain, sheer luck. “Good of you.”
“Now,” Fulbert said, pointing at Stephen with his mug and looking rather stern, “we understand there’s a bit of hesitation about this fancy entertainment upcoming.”
Stephen felt himself frowning. “Entertainment?”
“The ball,” Hugh said wistfully, looking as if he might rather have wished to be going himself. “The fancy dress ball at Kenneworth House.”
Fulbert shot Hugh a look. “’Tis hardly a house.
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