When Mrs. Thompson leaves me, I spend a few pleasant hours getting the lay of the land in the library, which is really just another way of saying that I have a jolly good snoop, but like, in a professional way.
It’s a lot of fun.
My mood is so buoyed by dinnertime that I’m hardly even infuriated by Lord Snotty-pants’s failure to appear. I pour myself a glass of wine, the size of which I strongly suspect would be considered uncouth by members of the nobility, but what of it? I’m not a nobleman. I’ll do what I goddamn like.
I enjoy my dinner, only jumping a few inches when I hear a thump that turns out to be nothing.
5
Jensen
Tokilltimebeforebreakfast, I give myself a tour of the grounds. Showing me around seems to have slipped Mrs. Thompson’s mind, but I don’t mind. In a way, it’s nice to explore on my own. This way, I have time to indulge in a nice little daydream about discovering a boarded-up secret garden and bringing it back to life despite not knowing a thing about gardening and generally not enjoying activities that involve getting my hands dirty.
Fortunately, the not-so-secret gardens I do find are gorgeous enough on their own. It’s March, so they’re sleepy and wizened. So quiet, it’s almost eerie. Box hedges and conifers are dusted with frost, and as the weak morning sun rises and hits them, the scene transforms around me. Ice crystals light up and warm pinks and mauves paint glittery streaks on the horizon.
It’s so peaceful, and it reminds me of mornings at Branson’s cabin back home. I like waking early when I’m up there andsitting on the porch. It looks out over the valley, and it’s one of my favorite places to enjoy my first cup of coffee for the day.
Thinking of the cabin gives me a pang of homesickness. An ache between my ribs that has me reaching for my phone. I take a selfie without overthinking it and send it to Branson and Lucien, along with a text.
Jetlagged but alive.
Though I’d love it if they worried about me, I don’t want to give them the satisfaction of thinking I made a mistake coming here. I send a few more messages to ensure that doesn’t happen.
Everything’s perfect here. So glad I came. Definitely not a mistake.
All very noble and fancy, had quail for dinner last night.
Since they both know me better than most people, I know they’ll worry if I don’t have any complaints.
Boss is a bit of a douche.
Harmless, but still.
I silence my notifications and put my phone in my pocket, so I’m not tempted to compulsively check it and get upset about how long it takes them to respond, and keep walking. I round a bend, the garden gives way to a paddock, and I come across an impressive stable block. The red brick and stonework match the house, but this building has white stable doors and smells strongly of horse.
It’s not my favorite smell, though there is something comforting about it this morning. I follow it around to the back of the building, and stop in my tracks.
It appears Lord Augustus is an early riser as well. He’s been up for hours, by the look of him. He’s completed his ride and is hosing down a very large black stallion. Or gelding. I’m not entirely sure how one tells a stallion from a gelding.
All I am sure of is that the horse is a male. I’m positive of that.
Lord Augustus is wearing khaki jodhpurs and a cream linen shirt that’s unbuttoned to his sternum. It’s cold to be dressed so lightly. He must run hot, even for an alpha.
His jodhpurs have mud splattered on one leg, and Jesus, they’re snug. Even from where I’m standing, I can see the seams pulling when he moves. The fabric clings to his thighs, drawing my eye upward to the swell of his ass.
It’s not that I want to look. It’s just that I’m a slave to male beauty, and while this man seems like a bit of an asshole to me, he’s a beautiful asshole.
His dark hair is damp from his ride and sticks to his forehead in thick, separate locks. His lips and cheeks are pink from the morning air, and his eyes look even blacker than they did at the table yesterday morning.
He moves differently out here, his movements less controlled. Less polite. I wouldn’t claim to know anything about the inner workings of his mind, but something about his demeanor makes me think he feels free outdoors and caged when he’s confined by four walls and a ceiling.
It’s probably bullshit. It’s probably my imagination making me see things that aren’t there. Probably a case of me reading too much fiction, more than anything else.
He turns off the faucet, sets down the hose, and roughly sweeps his hair out of his face with the back of his hand.
I know I should go. He hasn’t scented me yet by some miracle, but that’s bound to change soon. Or maybe he has scented me, and he’s ignoring me. Either way, I should head back. I’m quite far from the house, and looking around, I’m suddenly acutely aware that there aren’t any other people around.
Yes. I should definitely head back.
