(Blood and Bone, #2) Sin and Swoon(41)

I walk past him as he clears his throat. “We have to get ready for dinner.”

I glance down at my jeans and sweater. “I am ready.”

He shakes his head. “It’s a five-star affair, Jane. You may not wear pants unless they are designer and made from silk or wool.”

I sigh. “I don’t own anything that will work for a fancy dinner, Dash. I brought my regular clothes. T-shirts and jeans, sweaters, and a hoodie in case we were going to be going anywhere that required me to be warm. And those dresses will make me hate myself for agreeing to endure this bullshit and pretending to be good enough for your family.”

He clenches his jaw, clearly done talking about it all, and walks to the front of the house, down the long hallway, and grabs a bag I didn’t pack. It isn’t mine. And yet, somehow Nichols has snuck in here and planted it on me. He must be part spy and part servant.

“I packed a bag for you.” He saunters back down the hall, dropping the bag at the entry of the room. The fight has been sucked out of him. “So get dressed. I’ll ask Evangeline to come back and ensure you look appropriate, and I will see you at dinner in an hour.”

“An hour? Who needs an hour to get ready?” I wrinkle my nose when he laughs. “I hate you.”

“I hope you can forgive me for all of this. And I really hope you see that it is they who are not good enough for you and that this is obligation on our part and not who we are.” He looks completely gutted, totally wounded. I know he doesn’t realize Angie and I say we hate each other jokingly twice a day. Granted, she says it more than I do, but she jokes more. Whereas I think it a lot.

My heart sort of breaks, and not because of him but because of me when he turns to walk away. So I say, “I don’t think I’ll ever forgive you, but I will use it to get my way in everything we ever do.”

He glances back, smiling wide when he realizes that I’m kidding. “Sold.” He turns and leaves the room, leaving me with the fancy piece of luggage that says Gucci on the small tag at the top. I have a terrible feeling it cost more than my townhouse.





13. Barons and dukes and senators, oh my!




I don’t recognize myself.

Not because I am crawling around in the mind of another person either.

It is entirely because Evangeline has done my makeup. There was a whole bag of it from a store called Sephora. This is something I have endured with Angie a time or two, only Evangeline is some kind of wizard with the contents of the bag.

I recognized the blush, the face powder, the liquid liner, and the mascara. The rest has been something else altogether. Little containers of blues and grays that look like paste but dry with a shimmer over my eyes, and tubes of gloss that swell your lips for you, like instant plastic surgery.

I lean in, mystified at where my pores went and why my brows look so different. I don’t look like I might be just a little ethnic, not even a touch. I look like Barbie’s dark-haired friend. I turn to the side, marveling at it all.

She nods, stepping back and smiling. “You look lovely. Lady Townshend will have no complaints.”

I pause. “Lady? She makes you call her that?” I have never in my life met a woman who was given the title lady without being someone of importance. And the two I have met both remind me a lot of his mother.

Evangeline doesn’t seem to understand, but then smiles widely. “He never told you?”

I’m excited we have gotten past the curtseying and nonsense, but the comical look on her face makes my insides twist. “Told me what, exactly?”

“Oh lord, he is already in hot water for asking you to marry him, I can’t believe he hasn’t told you. They’re gentry, something Americans would consider royalty. His father is a cousin to the queen of England. Sir George Townshend is a baronet. He’s been retired for some time from politics and Her Majesty’s Privy Council and the courts. We travel back to England in the summer and spend winters here in Virginia or in southern France.”

“Oh, dear God.” I plop into the rattan chair next to me, completely mystified at his keeping such a remarkable piece of information to himself. I feel like a frog who’s been placed in a pot to boil and only now do I realize the water is burning me, when it’s too late to get out. I can’t believe he let me believe he was a simple and sweet doctor. I knew he was out of my league, but I didn’t know we were different species.

I can’t swallow. My mouth is dry yet welling with spit, and my throat is knotted with my stomach. I look back at the reflection and start to laugh. “So his last name isn’t Dash? His name isn’t Benjamin Dash?”