2
The ornate hand-crafted table in Blackwell Oberlin’s dining room reeked of the Renaissance, as did the stuffed blue chairs, though the tapestry on Oberlin’s walls were more fourteenth century with a less gildedvibe.
His tailor stretched the blue velvet fabric of his jacket across his muscular frame, the man having caught up to him as he’d tried to leave the palace for some fresh air. His father’s ducal outfit suffocatedhim.
“Wait, just a tuck here, my lord. Do you mind taking off yourundershirt?”
Trapped. The man staring back at him from the gold mirror over the dining table could be an actor playing the part of Avce’s Duke of Oakley but inside his gut he yearned for the wide open fields of Colorado and the old familyfarm.
Woodbridge Hall was the opposite; contained, refined, with white walls and hardwood floors in every room that were polished to perfection. Raised in the United States, he felt more at home near the cornfields of Kansas than he did here, in this museum that represented his ancestry andhome.
He’d been a teenager when his parents had insisted they’d return and reclaim a home his ancestors had spent a millennia or more in, but honestly, since turning eighteen, he’d avoided the castle. No place in Europe had ever made him feel as comfortable as Colorado—though Oxford had been fun. Living in Paris had been a vacation but now that his father had passed, he was stuck here for the rest of his days. The idea that his father was gone grounded him. It was his job now to care for his mother, but there was no way she’d ever move back toAmerica.
Instead, his mother insisted he take his place as the next Duke, so he’d agreed to be fitted in the confining blue jacket that was filled with family symbols of a long ago past. His throat constricted. The moment the tailor was done, Blackwell stripped off the pinned jacket, handed it to the tailor, and walked shirtless into hisgarden.
A riot of colorful flowers bloomed, nature’s fragrance easing him. He needed to get away from the palace. None of the refinement fit in his tortured soul. Without a word to his staff, he stormed back in and grabbed his black t-shirt from the blue and gold chair he’d tossed it on and shrugged it down his chest. If anyone important saw him, he truly didn’t care. Jeans would be more comfortable but his black khakis would have to do because he wasn’t goingupstairs.
Tomorrow, after the wedding, he’d go to his stables and spend the dayriding.
Until then…he headed toward his motorcycle parked on the long driveway in front of the liverystation.
A beer at the local tavern might calm his mood. He revved the engine of his cycle and took off toward the black gold-plated gate that kept his mausoleum aka Woodbridge Hall quartered off from the rest of theworld.
The ride toward the tavern was peaceful though it passed too fast. As soon as he reached the small village that bordered his estate, he grunted. There were too many cars near the hotel so he parked on the sidewalk. Tourists were clearly everywhere. Pocketing his keys, he strode into the tavern and instantly saw the place was packed with people. He walked toward his favorite waitress. “Beer,please.”
“Yes, Your Grace.” She bowed her head and he scanned theroom.
Every table in the back seemed full. There had to be someplace for him to drink his beer in peace without the waitress digging up some chair and table for him. The bar seemed slightly less busy. “Let’s not tell everyone that title. And who are all thesepeople?”
She answered with a smile and a pat of her apron pocket. “Tourists here for the royalwedding.”
“Great.” He briefly closed his eyes. He probably made money off of every single one of them but he hadn’t asked to be born into royalty. This nobility stuff felt cold and he missed the satisfaction of hard work done with his ownhands.
She pointed toward the quieter counter at the very end. “I’ll let the bartender know your order—there’s a stool at thebar.”
“That’s all I need. Thank you, ma’am.” He nodded and moved through thecrowd.
The oak seat creaked as he parked his backside on the leather top, but at least in the tavern he could pretend his life wasnormal.
The bartender brought him his mug and he paid right away, leaving a big tip. The chilled beer was as close to Colorado cold as he could get. He stared out the window overlooking the parking lot and the flowering tree at theend.
A soft female bumped into his side but righted herself before she fell on him. He looked beyond her and saw a young family flailing with two children and a stroller. She must have beenpushed.
Like him, the brunette was dressed all in black. Her hair was in a messy bun at the back of her lowered head. “Sorry aboutthat.”
“No problem.” He nodded at her just to be polite, not to invite conversation. The air around the woman smelled likevanilla.
She looked him up and down again with big brown eyes. “You’reAmerican?”
“I was born in Colorado.” Warmth heated his cheeks as he realized she didn’t know that he was the new duke. It was nice to be seen as no one special. He took off his hat and discreetly studied the young woman. She hid the curves with layers, but his instincts were always right. Underneath all her clothes, she’d bebeautiful.
She narrowed her gaze. “Is your wifehere?”
“I’m definitely not married.” He straightened. Whoever this woman was, she wasn’t causing him to choke with anxiety, like the other ladies of his acquaintance. He sipped his beer and took the moment to really see her face was quite pretty, without a drop of makeup. Thick lashes, a plump lowerlip.
She stayed still, her hand on the counter. “Gay?”
What? Nobody hadeverthought that about him. He sat straighter as she inspected him. “No. I’m just here to enjoy my beer,ma’am.”
