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the dietary rules, sir?”

      “I’m afraid I have, Mrs. Grace. I’ve always been a bit of a rule-breaker.” He’d told Nicola yesterday he courted trouble on a regular basis.

      “Well, you’re in Puddling now. The rules are made for a reason. I shall have to report this to the governors.”

      “Shall I be made to walk the plank? Face the lash? Return the peaches somehow? I don’t think they would be in pristine condition.”

      Mrs. Grace raised a silver eyebrow, which would have terrified Nicola had the expression been directed at her. “Don’t be impertinent. There are consequences for your actions.”

      “Don’t I know it,” Jack mumbled. His crooked smile had flattened. “Very well, Mrs. Grace, I shall endeavor to behave myself in the future. No more fruit for me.”

      “It’s for your own good, you know. A moderate, wholesome meal plan is the first step to calming one’s nerves.”

      Oh dear. Jack did not look like he agreed with her, but at least he wasn’t arguing back. Was he of a nervous disposition? He seemed…busy, but not manic. Full of life.

      “I’ll be a good boy. Or try to. Nicola, may I borrow your notebook? I have something to show you.”

      She followed him into the parlor, leaving Mrs. Grace to deal with the carrots and her temper. Jack flopped down on the sofa and began to sketch, a frown of concentration on his face. He flipped through several pages, drawing on each one. She took the uncomfortable chair, observing the rapid strokes from his deft if dirty fingers.

      “Come sit beside me. This is all because of you, you know. Remember how you fell the other day? Of course you do—you’re still limping. I got to thinking about your shoes. They were next to useless in this weather. But what if one could make a shoe that could have traction built right in for any weather event? See there—it looks like a regular shoe. But with a thicker sole. When you slide this button, lines of steel teeth roll out. You could walk on ice or mud without slipping or getting stuck. Slide the button back, the teeth retract and you’re ready to dance. What do you think?”

      She grabbed the pencil. What an interesting idea. They could be used for self-defense too.

      “What a bloodthirsty wench you are! I suppose you’d like to go around kicking people with knives on your feet. I’d better stay out of your way.”

      He was very much in her way right now, sitting so close, the scent of starch and his masculine cologne inescapable.

      The aroma of peaches too. A kiss of forgotten summer. Nicola sighed without sound, then wrote in her book.

      Is this what you do? Make shoes?

      “Not yet. But I could buy a shoe factory and start.” He sat back. “I wonder if there’s military application—not that they’d go about kicking the enemy, but such footwear might come in handy in all sorts of locations. I’d have to make some prototypes, though. I wonder about the weight of the mechanism. Steel might not be practicable if one is marching for miles.” He dashed off a few words in the margins.

      She read upside down. Wheels? Blades? It was pretty clear to Nicola that she and Jack were not going for a walk today. She squelched her disappointment.

      Do you want to keep the notebook?

      “No, I’ve got a dozen drawings just like this at home. And I can’t do anything about anything for the next several weeks—we’re all sub rosa here. Incommunicado. While the cat’s away, my secretary, Ezra Clarke, is probably sitting at my desk with his feet up, smoking one of my best cigars and hoping I never come home. A fine time to get an idea, buried here.” He looked slightly glum.

      I can contact him for you.

      Jack raised both dark eyebrows. “What? They give you real food and leave to write letters?”

      Nicola nodded and wrote: My father is a solicitor. We write several times a week. I can enclose your letter in mine, and you can trust him to deliver it.

      “You are encouraging me to misbehave. Break the rules. What will Mrs. Grace say?” He was grinning now.

      Nicola grinned back.

      “Oh, you lovely girl!” Jack threw his arms around her and kissed her cheek. Nicola was so startled by the contact that she moved, causing Jack’s lips to slide right over her cheek to her mouth. Their breaths mingled for a second, and then she felt him rear back.

      As any gentleman should.

      She leaned forward, grabbed his wrinkled jacket, and kissed him full on the mouth.

      He wasn’t going anywhere now.

      After a bit, his hand was in her carefully arranged hair, fingertips tickling her scalp. His lips were firm, warm and dry, and pressed against hers with the barest pressure. Nicola knew of open-mouthed kissing. Should she initiate it? It was rather peculiar, and she hadn’t much enjoyed it when she and Richard had experimented.

      Jack decided for her. His tongue traced the seam of her lips, and she opened.

      He was extraordinarily gentle, as if he expected her to object in some way. Bite his tongue. Slap his face. She wasn’t going to. Prickles of sensation raced up and down her spine as his tongue layered over hers. This was entirely different from anything she’d experienced before. It was less, but somehow more. The messy, clumsy, embarrassing wetness was absent; instead, there was controlled heat and purpose to every flick of Jack’s tongue.

      Goodness. Although Nicola supposed goodness didn’t have much to do with it. Jack kissed in a reverent yet masterful fashion, and she felt every inch of her skin respond. Hair was lifting, tiny bursts of hot blood scurried to the surface. She must be terribly flushed, but after a quick peek, Nicola knew Jack couldn’t see her. His eyes were closed, his long dark lashes still.

      She shut her own eyes again and allowed herself to feel only. Her hands twisted about his loosened collar, pinning him in place. In turn, one set of his fingers stroked her cheek while the other stole pins from her hair. She was coming undone in more ways than one. It was all like a dream, warm, lush, and exotic. It wasn’t winter. She wasn’t stuck in an odd Cotswold village, but cocooned in the arms of a—

      “Miss Nicola!”

      Oops. Mrs. Grace’s horrified tone reminded her that it was broad daylight, and she was on her sofa, her mouth being ravaged by a relative stranger. No, not ravaged. Nicola couldn’t think of the precise word, her head was spinning so. Feeling was so much simpler than looking for words in her fuzzy head.

      Jack leaped up. “Forgive me. It’s not what you think, Mrs. Grace.”

      “Isn’t it? I’ll thank you to go to your cottage right this instant and let Miss Nicola alone. The governors certainly will be hearing about this as well as your other infractions.” Oh, that eyebrow.

      Heavens. Surely they couldn’t object to a friendship between Guests? Didn’t friends kiss on occasion? But perhaps not quite like Jack had kissed Nicola.

      And would do again if she had any say about it.

      Chapter 6

      December 19, 1882

      Jack was in the doghouse; no meaty bone for him. No meat, period. This morning, he’d been visited and lectured by Mr. Fitzmartin, Dr. Oakley, and the head of the board of governors, who’d just returned from his honeymoon abroad and seemed disinclined to waste too much time with a misbehaving Guest so he could get back to his new wife. The man—around his age, someone called Sykes—had blistered him with the consequences of his actions, checking his pocket watch all the while.

      There was some mention of scandal, accountability, trust. High standards. Rules and responsibilities. Puddling’s sterling reputation through the ages, eight decades of success, a duty to reform the unreformable.

      Which meant Jack, he supposed.

      Quiet and wholesome country living

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