AllFreeNovel
Share Us
As she focused on her surroundings, she realized his family home was actually an estate with a long drive winding through carefully landscaped grounds. A Moorish-looking structure came into view, built of rose-colored stucco with a crenellated rooftop. They drew nearer, and she saw that the house had several wings, along with arched windows and a tiled roof. An enormous mosaic fountain near the entrance made it look as if the entire place had come out of the Arabian nights instead of the Texas Hill Country.
“My mother wanted something out of the ordinary,” Kenny said politely as he parked the car. She waited for a wisecrack about sultans or harems, but he said nothing else.
As she got out the car, the evening chill penetrated the bright yellow rayon crepe dress she’d chosen to wear that evening. It was splashed with crimson poppies and had three-quarter sleeves to cover her tattoo. Beddington would have approved of her outfit, she thought glumly, but she simply couldn’t stomach the idea of offending Kenny’s family by showing up in her trendier apparel. Besides, the duke’s watchdog could hardly follow her into a private setting. Her spirits dipped lower as she realized she hadn’t done anything all day to ruin her reputation.
They walked toward carved double doors banded in hammered brass. The house was impressive and exotic, but not very homey, and she couldn’t help but compare it with Kenny’s comfortable ranch. What had it been like for him to grow up
here as his mother’s little sultan and his father’s disappointment?
He held the door open for her, and she stepped into a tiled hallway that was decorated like an English country house, although not nearly as worn around the edges. In contrast to the foyer’s Moorish architecture, a highly polished Hepplewhite table held a pair of Dresden figurines while an old English landscape painting covered much of the side wall. The juxtaposition was a bit disconcerting but not unattractive.
Torie came down the stairs. She was dressed in a chartreuse tank dress with a black T-shirt. “Welcome to Marrakesh-on-Avon, Lady Emma.” She gave Kenny a swift kiss on the cheek. “Hey, bubba. The Munsters are waiting for us on the terrace. We’re dining al fresco.”
“Lucky us.”
She followed Kenny and Torie through a high-ceilinged living room decorated in eighteenth century furniture and chintz, along with an array of silver-framed photographs and hunting prints. A pair of Moorish doors with mosaic inlays opened onto a pleasantly shaded terrace paved in a herringbone pattern of pink brick edged with navy and rose tiles. Banquettes with curving arms had been built into the stucco walls and were cushioned with colorful paisley pillows. A large tiled table with a brass lantern at its center had been set for dinner. At one end of the terrace a very American-looking play yard held a dark-haired baby who grabbed the mesh sides and began squealing and pumping his legs as he saw Kenny.
“Hey, there, son!”
Emma didn’t need an introduction to identify the man who shot to his feet as Kenny’s father. He was a burlier version of his son, still handsome, but with coarser features and thick hair grizzled with gray. His too-hearty greeting and overly eager smile signaled a man who was unsure of himself. As he stepped forward to embrace his son, Emma sensed Kenny’s nearly invisible withdrawal. Although he permitted the embrace, he gave nothing back.
Emma saw right then that Kenny had not forgiven his father for the years of childhood neglect. She also sensed that his father very much wanted that forgiveness.
Kenny disengaged himself as soon as he could and headed for the play yard, where he scooped the baby into his arms. “How are you doing, little brother?”
Was it Emma’s imagination, or did he place unnecessary emphasis on that last word?
Peter let out a squeal of delight. At the same time Shelby came through the doors. She wore white leggings and an oversized lime-green V-neck cotton cardigan. She looked like Mr. Traveler’s daughter instead of his wife.
“Lady Emma, it’s such an honor having you with us this evening. I don’t know if Kenny told you, but I’m crazy about everything that has to do with England. I have a whole collection of books about Princess Di if you’d like to see them. Did anybody introduce you to my husband Warren?”
He gave her a warm smile. “Lady Emma. It’s nice to meet you.”
“Just Emma is fine. Thank you both for inviting me.”
“It’s our honor,” Shelby gushed, then gestured toward one of the banquettes. “Tell me how you’re enjoying your trip. Both Warren and I love London, don’t we, Warren? Do you live near the city?”
Emma explained that she lived several hours away by car in Warwickshire, then answered Shelby’s questions about her trip. Before long, Shelby was regaling her with stories of backpacking in England after she’d graduated from college and a research project she’d once done on D. H. Lawrence. As she spoke, Torie stood off to one side, sipping a glass of wine and watching Kenny and Peter with a deeply unhappy expression on her face. Warren, in the meantime, seemed content to sip his bourbon and let his wife do the talking.
Shelby, who looked plump, blond, and merely pretty in this family of dark-haired demigods, glared at Torie as she lit up. “Put that out. You know I don’t like it when you smoke around Peter.”
“We’re outside. I’m not even near him.”
“No, you never are, are you?” Hurt clouded Shelby’s eyes, and Emma remembered what Torie had said earlier about not being able to have a child. Had that caused the sadness that lurked just beneath her outrageousness?
“Warren, Lady Emma doesn’t have a drink,” Shelby said.
“What would you like?”
“A soft drink would be fine.”
Warren wandered over to a bar set into one end of the terrace and addressed his son in an overly hearty manner. “Kenny, what about you? I’ve got one of those sissy red wines you like.”
“I’ll get it later.” Kenny didn’t even bother to look at his father. Instead, he propped Peter on his shoulders, holding his arms to keep him steady, and took his little brother over for a closer view of a squirrel that had climbed into the branches of an olive tree.
Torie folded her fashion model’s body into one of the banquettes and crossed her legs. “So what do you think of Mother Shelby, Lady Emma?” She splayed her fingers through her dark hair and propped one elbow on a paisley pillow. “I know you’re dying of curiosity, but too polite to ask. Shelby’s twenty-seven, exactly thirty-one years younger than our daddy and a year younger than me. Doesn’t that just about turn your stomach?”
“Torie, can’t you at least wait until Petie’s in bed?” Kenny said.
