Refine (House of Oak Book 4) Read online

  She didn’t back down an inch. Not even when he stopped a hair’s breadth from her. She just craned back her neck, keeping her eyes firmly on his.

  Stubborn, infuriating, recalcitrant—

  “Anything else you would like to say, Timothy?” Her voice so very, very cool.

  Her chest heaved under her folded arms. She was not as unaffected as she seemed.

  And then it happened.

  The worst possible thing.

  All his rage and anger and fury transmuted into something much more hot-blooded.

  Damn. She was beautiful. In every way.

  Fiery and demanding. Unyielding. In all his years, had he ever met such a woman?

  For the briefest of seconds, he allowed himself to imagine what a lush little armful she would be.

  His eyes dipped to her mouth. A strand of hair curled across her cheek, a few threads clinging to her bottom lip. Unthinking, he raised a hand to brush the curl back.

  The feel of her soft cheek under his finger shot through him. A bolt of lightning.

  It was the first time he had touched her, he realized. How could a simple touch feel so . . . momentous? Like a jarring change in the entire physical chemistry of his body?

  Three more fingers followed the first, helplessly brushing over her satin skin. The contact scrubbing every thought from his brain.

  She gasped. And then instantly placed her palms on his chest, obviously intent on pushing him away.

  But as soon as she made contact, it happened again.

  A knee-weakening surge of electricity.

  As if her touch had completed a circuit and now they were both caught in its sway. Helplessly held together. Unable to part.

  Her fingers flexed and curled into his shirt. Undecided. Push him away or draw him closer?

  With a mind of their own, his fingers curled around her cheek, cupping her face in his palm. Soft. Gentle.

  Unbidden, his body dipped, bending down. The gravity of her mouth too powerful to resist.

  Close. So close.

  She tensed.

  And then pushed. Hard. Forceful.

  Shoving him away.

  And then kept right on shoving, pushing him back, back, back until he stood in the hallway.

  Gave an emphatic shake of her head.

  And then bam, slammed the door shut.

  Jasmine leaned against the closed door.

  Had that just happened?

  Like . . . really happened?

  She mentally reviewed, ticking the items off on her fingers . . .

  Loud music, shouting, insults, anger, arrogance . . . all normal.

  And then, wham.

  Timothy stalking toward her. Still all bristling jungle lion, but now with a prowling sexiness three shades past legal.

  How could someone be so annoying and yet so exciting at the same time?

  Her head was messed.

  Though not regretting at all that he couldn’t shave. Dark stubble with those quicksilver eyes . . .

  And that sudden jolt. Jarring to life all those sparks and high wattage attraction that had been simmering for days.

  Man, that was the last thing this situation needed.

  But his touch . . . so careful. As if she were precious. Breakable. And his gaze . . . as she had looked up, up, up into his face . . .

  She had caught a glimpse . . . a possibility . . . of what if . . .

  So much seethed beneath that rigid exterior of his. So much intensity and emotion and passion.

  Why was he here? Why had the portal let him through?

  The portal’s pattern so far had been fairly consistent. Nearly everyone who came in contact with it was led to their soul mate. But was that the case here? Because she couldn’t see it happening . . .

  Well, that wasn’t entirely true. She could see herself (maybe, sorta) kissing him, once the worst of this anger phase passed.

  Typical dysfunctional attraction to the dangerous bad boy who didn’t play nice with the other kids.

  C’mon. Who would turn down the chance to kiss a sexy real-life nineteenth century viscount? It was like the ultimate notch in one’s kissing belt.

  Forget captain of the football team (who, on a complete side note, had actually been a terrible kisser but a terrific guy-friend once they got past all the we-kissed-and-didn’t-like-it awkwardness).

  Where was she?

  Timothy. Kissing. Ehr . . . or almost kissing . . .

  Kissing him would be a bad idea. His head was already messed up enough, what with the ‘destruction of his entire value system’ and ‘mourning of everything he had ever thought to be true’ he had going on.

  No need to add ‘confusing infatuation with a completely unsuitable shrew’ into the whole mix.

  And, heaven knew, kissing and some wicked attraction was all that would ever happen between them, so why even go down that path in the first place?

  She could only hope that the bargaining phase would bring more calm.

  Or, at the very least, less shouting.

  Duir Cottage

  March 30, 2015

  Jasmine woke to find a plethora of sticky notes attached to her bedroom door. All with a single word on them.

  One note in the middle provided an explanation:

  Please accept this supply of damns. When you chose to give one, I require a valet, a cook and a maid. Naturally, you are welcome to provide these services yourself.

  If Jasmine had had her morning coffee and hadn’t spent the last ten days living with the pompous jerk, she might have actually laughed. It was just pissy enough to be funny . . .

  But it mostly just put the nail-in-the-coffin on the whole kissing idea. Total buzz kill.

  She ripped one of the damn sticky notes off her door and strode off to find a certain Mr. Timothy Linwood.

  There was only one damn she cared to give. And she intended to slap it in the middle of his high-and-mighty forehead.

  Duir Cottage

  April 2, 2015

  Group text message. 10:45 A.M.

  Jas: I’m pretty sure when this all goes down both of you will be considered accessories

  Emme: James does look good in pink.

  Jas: accessories to murder

  your color will be orange

  James: Duly noted. Linwood, I take it?

  Jas: he’s entirely helpless and begging for a valet because he can’t even shave himself what grown man can’t shave himself

  Emme: Punctuation, Jas. Try it. You might like it.

  Jas: what grown man can’t shave himself????!!!!!!!!

  Emme: Uhmmmm, Linwood?

  Jas: ding ding ding

  he’s just sooooooooo angry and pissy all the time

  James: I am sorry, Jas. I know Timothy can be a total ass most of the time.

  Jas: he’s asking for a cook and a maid but what he really needs is a babysitter and a punching bag

  or maybe some valium and a case of vodka

  HELP

  !!!!!!!!!!

  Emme: Jas, we’ve got your back. Don’t worry. James will come up with a solution.

  Jas: literal tears

  bless you

  James: I heard from Cobra. Still nothing concrete. Said he would call you today.

  James: And no more worrying about Timothy. I’m on it.

  Chapter 13

  Duir Cottage

  April 4, 2015

  This was soooooo not what she had in mind.

  Mayday, she had said. I need help.

  Babysitter. Punching bag. Valium. Vodka.

  If not for Timothy, then for herself.

  I’m on it, James had promised.

  He was such a liar-liar-pants-on-fire.

  How was this supposed to help?

  She stared at the package she had just opened, its contents strewn on the kitchen counter.

  Precisely three things:

  A note written in James’ swooping nineteenth century handwriting.

  A yellow and black book: How
to Use a Smart Phone for Dummies.

  And a sparkling new top-of-the-line phone.

  She lifted the box. Poked a finger through the packaging one more time.

  Nope. That was it.

  Aaaaaaand it was now official.

  She was going to have to kill James too.

  The bodies were starting to pile up.

  How hard was this? She was stuck with Lord Hissy Fit—

  Mmmmm. She could do better than that . . .

  The Duke of Distemper?

  The Earl of Umbrage?

  The Count of Conniption?

  The Viscount of Vexation . . .

  Yeah. That was better.

  No, wait! She had it—

  She was trapped with Lord Loser and his whole anger mis-management thing. Good thing lords didn’t go into business, because ol’ LL would win the Worst Boss of the Year award right out of the gate—

  “The Viscount of Vexation?” Timothy’s smooth aristocratic drawl cut through the room. “I do believe there is a rather horrid penny novel by that name.”

  Not again.

  Jasmine wanted to sink her head into her hands.

  Or, better, throw LL’s shiny new phone at his hard head.

  From his seat in a wingback chair next to the fire, Timothy snapped the newspaper he was reading. The scene pretty much as it had been for the last several days. Him checking the portal, reading the newspaper, checking the portal, shooting pithy insults at her, checking the portal . . .

  “You do realize, of course, you do not need to say aloud every word which crosses your mind, correct? People, as a general rule, edit their thoughts before speaking.”

  Ooooooooh!

  “Yeah, well, most of us actually understand others have feelings too.” She tapped her foot.

  A flip of newspaper. “You are angry because I value honesty above flattering platitudes.”

  “Honesty? I think ‘arrogance’ is the correct word there.”

  “True superiority is hardly arrogance. It is knowledge—”

  “Wow! You define the word delusional.”

  Snap. “You are merely unused to men who understand their worth.”

  Oh!

  Of all the—!

  Jasmine stood up, straightened her shoulders. Tucked the phone, book and note back into the box. Sashayed her sweet self across the room and dropped the box into LL’s smart-mouthed lap.

  Crushing his precious newspaper in the process.

  He grabbed for the box before it could do any serious damage to his, uh . . . person.

  She didn’t wait to see his reaction.

  “You’re stuck here.” She said as she grabbed her keys, purse and sketchbook off the kitchen table. “Deal.”

  James couldn’t send real help. Fine.

  She was suddenly a lot less worried about that BMW out back ending up with a scratch or a ding. And she did have some research to do.

  Lord Loser could fend for himself.

  And, yes.

  She did slam the door nice and hard on her way out.

  The room reverberated long after Miss Fleury stomped out the door.

  Timothy clenched and unclenched his jaw. The woman was truly adept at dragging his emotions to the surface. Clearly something in the box on his lap had upset her.

  Timothy lifted the box and pulled out three items.

  A book, a phone and a note.

  James’ familiar handwriting shot a wave of a homesickness through him.

  Though the words were terse.

  Timothy,

  My old friend, I understand you are upset over finding yourself trapped in this century. Your concerns are duly noted. However, I will not be providing you with a valet, cook or maid. Modern technologies have made such jobs obsolete. I know you and, therefore, know how much you crave work, though you couch it in terms of serving in the House of Lords or seeing to your estate. Regardless, there is satisfaction in caring for yourself and your own. Such pride in accomplishments exists in 2015 as well, even if the means are different.

  Though I have often faulted you for your boorish and condescending behavior, I have never doubted your intelligence or work ethic. Set down your newspaper and stop feeling sorry for yourself. You are capable of learning to navigate this century, and I am providing you with the tools to do so. Google is your best friend and will teach you all you need to know. Or to put it in a nineteenth century way: Loosen your cravat, give your ship full sail and enjoy the journey.

  On another note, Jasmine is a particularly good friend of ours, and she is going through her own personal struggles. The last thing she needs is an arrogant lout harassing her. Stop it. And apologize while you’re at it. I promise the words won’t actually choke you.

  If you return to 1815 before I see you again, I wish you a prosperous and long life.

  Your friend,

  James Knight

  P. S. Marc keeps a punching bag, boxing gloves and other sporting items in a shed behind the old stables. Feel free to work out any aggression.

  Setting down the letter, Timothy studied the book and phone.

  Did he want to learn to navigate this century? It seemed like capitulation. Accepting that he was going to be here for a while. Perhaps even forever.

  He tightened his jaw and tilted his head back against the chair. Harsh breaths hissing in and out of his locked teeth. A persistent throbbing set up shop between his brows.

  Two weeks. He had been here for over two entire weeks.

  And nothing.

  Besides learning of Kinningsley that first day, nothing more had been forthcoming.

  He still remained convinced that the mere knowledge of what Kinningsley would become was sufficient. That he should be allowed to return to his own century. He could make the changes necessary from the past.

  Yet the portal remained stubbornly closed, indicating his full purpose here was not complete.

  But there had been no more clues as to what he was supposed to do or learn, aside from tolerate humiliation and navigate hopelessly confusing situations. And endure the presence of a certain headstrong, mercurial, enigmatic, captivating, alluring, spellbinding, bewitching . . .

  At least she had been wearing a long skirt today. Granted, one that swirled and clung to her legs, but at least its length was a step in the right direction. Now if she would only wear an appropriate bodice—

  Not that it mattered. She would never be anything to him. Could never be.

  What was to become of Kinningsley? Without him at its helm (and, quite honestly, Miss Heartstone’s much needed dowry), would the entire estate, in fact, sink? Be sold off, bit by bit, to pay creditors?

  His chest tightened again. More hissing breaths. This damn panic would be the death of him.

  When would these physical spasms end? He ran a shaking hand through his hair. And then that terrible thought hit. The one that had been haunting him for days:

  Given what he now knew, what would he do if and when he returned home? How could he marry Miss Heartstone? Sacrifice. Bow to the conventions his birthright thrust upon him. Adhere to a gentleman’s strict code of conduct. Stuff every last part of himself away . . .

  For what? An obsolete future?

  A scream stuck in his throat. Vise-like.

  Lurching to his feet, Timothy staggered to the back door. Determined to reach that punching bag before he started throwing things.

  An unnamed road west of Hereford

  A few hours later

  April 4, 2015

  Wow. That had been close.

  Jasmine clutched the steering wheel, knuckles white as chalk. Adrenaline pounding, dust settling around the car from her screeching stop.

  How could a truck that big even fit down this road given the trees and overgrown hedgerows? Much less assume the narrow lane could accommodate her oncoming car as well? Fortunately, she had noticed the dirt pull off before hitting the semi head-on.

  This little day trip had seemed like a good idea after her tiff with
Timothy. Just a quick jaunt down to Caerleon in Wales, stopping to sketch along the way, cooling her temper. Sticking to back roads because they sounded . . . easier. Less trafficked. More space.

  She gave a laugh just shy of maniacal.

  Talk about naive.

  The motorway would have been significantly simpler—

  Even worse, how was she going to get this car back home and deal with Lord Loser?

  She rested her head against the steering wheel for a second, swallowing her frustration. With only marginal success.

  Between Rita’s incessant texts about Marmi’s stuff, Jasmine’s own anxiety over the search for her real family, her inability to get a clear artistic direction for the mural in little Arthur’s room, and a certain angry, rude, boorish, sexy, complicated, helpless, confused viscount . . . . Jasmine felt more than a little adrift.

  Which probably explained why she was sitting on the side of the road, not sure how to continue forward but equally unable to return home.

  Her dreams the night before merely added to the confusion.

  Golden ribbons snaked through the room and out the window. Marmi’s house. The one she had grown up in. Lavender filled the air.

  She reached out a hand and one of the bright tendrils wrapped around her wrist, the touch holding with velvet firmness. Tugging her forward.

  The ribbon pulled her against the window, mashing her face to the glass, hands splayed against the panes.

  And still it pulled, wanting her to move . . . somewhere.

  The walls held her in. Trapped.

  The tendrils swirled outside the window. Agitated. Concerned. Looping around themselves, a shape taking form.

  Until a dara knot materialized . . . the same design nestled into the center of her necklace pendant . . . pulsing in the air—

  A noise jerked Jasmine upright.

  Let it go. Let it go. Can’t hold it back anymore . . .

  She managed to get her phone to her ear after dropping it twice.

  “Hello.” She shook her head, clearing the fuzziness.