It was Henry on a white horse. On Sebastian’s white horse. Rain dripped from his wide-brimmed hat and nineteenth-century greatcoat as he rode right smack down the middle of the road and ignored the chaos he was causing. Two hunting hounds nuzzled up to Chloe and slipped their soaked heads under her hands. Never in her life had she been so happy to see a dog, not to mention two sopping wet hounds. She rubbed their bony heads. But Henry? If he was real y the master of Dartworth Hal , he had lied to her. And who the hel was Sebastian, then?
Henry slowed his horse right in front of the bus stop, tipped his hat, and held out his hand to her. “Miss Parker, your conveyance has arrived.”
She folded her arms and the dogs wagged their tails against her wet gown. The lady was not amused.
His lips curled into a smile as he eyed her up and down. “I must say that your dramatic exit from the church was better than any production crew could dream of. Even now they’re salivating over the prospect of skyrocketing ratings. Wel done.”
Traffic wove around the horse. Chloe looked up the street, and half expected to see the camera crew. A smal crowd under umbrel as gathered around them.
“And where are the cameras now? I’m sure they’d love to get me on film looking like this.”
“No cameras. I lost them in the deer park. And as for your looks, wel , I’ve never been happier to see you.”
“I wish I could say the same.” If what that woman said was true, then he’d been lying to her for weeks! Chloe took off her glasses and tucked them into her soaked white reticule. She looked away from Henry and toward Dartworth Hal , where a patch of blue sky had broken through the clouds.
Henry dismounted, tied his horse to the bus-stop sign, and sat down next to her on the bench. She slid over and looked the other way.
“Can I buy you a cup of coffee? How about a double espresso nonfat latte?”
How did he know what kind of convoluted coffee she drank? The rain made a soft splashing sound on the cobblestones, the breeze picked up, and she shivered. Across the street, people darted into the red-brick pub with leaded windows. A sign swung on a wrought-iron post that read THE
GOLDEN ARMS in forest-green letters. She’d been in England for almost three weeks and hadn’t even been to an English pub.
Henry slid closer. “Or maybe a pint sounds better?”
There he was, reading her mind again.
“If you bought me a pint, I’d probably dump it al over you.”
He looked confused. “Lady Anne informed me that you pontificated to no end about my merits.”
A young pierced-nose couple in wet leather jackets came into the shelter, his arm around her shoulder, hers around his waist. They were taking pictures of Dartworth Hal with their cel -phone cameras. Chloe realized they were trying not to stare.
She stood up and the dogs did, too. “Forget the coffee or Guinness or whatever you people drink. I want the truth. Can you give me that? That would be good right about now. Let’s start with this simple fact: Are you the owner of Dartworth Hal or not?”
He stood and took his greatcoat and hat off, a lock of hair fal ing into his eye. “Oh. Someone told you.”
“Yes.”
The pierced couple and several others were outright gaping. But Chloe and Henry were used to being watched by cameramen, by George, the hidden production and editing crew.
Chloe paced in front of the bus-stop shelter in the rain, her hands clasped behind her. “It pays to get out into the real world and talk to real people and find out what the real deal is—”
He draped his greatcoat around her. “I understand you must be upset but—”
“Upset? I wish I were merely upset. I’m freakin’ furious!” Though the greatcoat did feel warm and dry around her. “I thought you were a gentleman.
No—first I thought Sebastian was a gentleman, possibly even someone I could love. Took me a while, but I figured that one out. Then I thought you were a gentleman. Ha!” Suddenly the rain stopped. “You’re both fakes.”
“I see your point.” He linked his arm in hers. “I’m going to buy you a coffee.” He guided her toward the tearoom.
“I don’t want you to buy me any coffee. You can’t buy me with your money.”
He opened the tearoom door for her. “As you wish, my lady. Please just step in to warm up. They have a fabulous hearth.”
When the door opened, the smel of coffee and tea and cream hit her with a jolt. The fireplace, flint stone al the way to the ceiling, lured her in with its warmth. Various dogs rested inside, at their owners’ feet. The English loved their dogs. Of course, the dogs could hardly wait outside, in the pouring rain. The hounds fol owed Chloe in.
A sideways glance in a silver platter hanging from the wal along with other tea accessories proved to Chloe that she real y did look like the Bride of Frankenstein. She fumbled with her hair while Henry removed the greatcoat from her shoulders and hung it near the door.
The hostess signaled a busboy. “Clear that table by the hearth for Mr. Wrightman.” The busboy scurried off, and in no time they were at the best table in the house, in front of a sizzling fire.
“What can I get you?” a waitress asked Chloe, clearly trying not to stare at her ruined gown.
“A double espresso nonfat latte. To go.”
