Kisses To Go. Irene Peterson

when he would have chastised her further, he thought once again about what she had done last night in order to get him to bring her along and, after the rush of sexual excitement had flashed through his body, he realized he had had no other option.

      “Now, now, dearest,” he muttered, “just remember the other things I told you and everything will be fine.”

      She looked up, a small, triumphant smile on her lips. “Oh, I won’t forget, Clarey.”

      He looked at her and sighed. The lessons had better begin in earnest before he brought her along to any of his friends—beginning with getting rid of that common accent of hers.

      “This way,” he said briskly.

      Abby looked over the array of dishes and smiled with satisfaction. Everything about the meal cried perfection, from the Wedgwood to the finest, freshest ingredients. The local farmers truly knew the meaning of the word “fresh.” The herbs and dairy products were newer than any she could have obtained stateside. The meat, well, she knew that it had been slaughtered and hung at the butcher’s mere days ago, and had never felt the antiseptic caress of foam backing or cellophane wrap.

      Working with these ingredients in this huge, fully equipped kitchen, it had been easy to come up with a menu worthy of any of the restaurants in which she had studied and worked in her career.

      In fact, it made her feel giddy to have produced the rather spectacular meal.

      With a quick wipe of her cloth, she removed a spot of sauce from a pristine plate. John Duxbury would serve the meal, along with one of the village girls who helped at the manor. She would join the family at dinner herself, something Tish had insisted upon.

      “But I made it,” she had protested.

      “Then you should eat it,” the younger woman had insisted.

      After several more go-rounds, she had finally accepted. The feeling that she didn’t belong remained, however, despite Tish’s reassurances. This was a family meal. Their uncle was bringing his new wife to meet them. The earl’s sister’s thoughts were one thing. Those of the earl were another. She hadn’t seen much of him in the past couple of days, but he made absolutely no effort to be friendly and she had given up worrying about it.

      What was that phrase? Somebody who went on vacation and ended up working? A busman’s holiday. That’s what this whole mess had turned into, but she really didn’t mind. Touring during the day and the little bit of cooking she’d done—it was still better than being in New York. She’d seen Bath and Wells and lots of Cornwall. She’d walked where Jane Austen had walked; tasted local specialties, which were not that special tastewise but certainly historic; and gradually been able to shed the feeling of despair that had dogged her since her “unfortunate departure” from the States.

      Thrusting all thoughts of Lance from her mind, she wiped her hands on the dishcloth and made her way to her bedroom to change for dinner. She had that little black dress that couldn’t wrinkle and those sleek black sandals just waiting for her to slither into, and slither she would.