A Royal Fortune. Judy Duarte
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Amber Rogers, if you’ll excuse me, it looks like that eggnog needs to be replenished again.”
That seemed an odd job for a man—especially a fancy-pants one like him, who was just a guest in the house anyway. Was he trying to get away from her?
As much as she’d wanted to avoid him in the past, she was a bit sorry to see him go. He was actually charming—when he wanted to be.
As he made his way to the punch bowl, which was indeed nearly empty, he was stopped several times along the way—first by one of his cousins, then by one of the children. He would smile and comment, yet he appeared to hold back, to remain somewhat aloof.
He’d seemed to lower his guard with her, though, but just for a moment. And only when they’d talked about old movies and horses.
She couldn’t help watching as he moved through the house, chatting with his family, yet milling about looking as neat and formal as his professionally pressed suit.
Jensen was a looker—if you liked the fancy and stylish kind of man who could grace the cover of a men’s fashion magazine.
Of course, she’d always favored the rugged outdoorsman, like cowboys and ranchers. Real men, not city boys.
Still, Jensen Fortune Chesterfield was a sight to behold—and to study, to admire, as long as he wasn’t aware of her interest.
Funny thing, though. For a man who seemed to have it all together—amazing good looks, a boatload of money, a royal family and position—he seemed to distance himself from the others.
But then again, she could see why someone as stuffy as him would be a loner. And she couldn’t help feeling a bit sorry for him.
There was something about Jensen that gave her a feeling of...well, she couldn’t quite put her finger on it. But it was a feeling she just couldn’t quite name or shake.
It was as if she knew him—or was destined to know him.
Hmm. Now that was weird. Because it made zero sense. He was British royalty and wool suits. And she was one hundred percent Texas cowgirl and worn jeans. They were as ill-suited as a cutting horse at the Grand National.
You’d think that would be the end of it. But oh, no. He’d gone and invited himself out to the Broken R tomorrow. And like the goof that she was, she’d agreed to a tour. So she was stuck seeing him again.
But after that, she’d cut herself out of the herd and make a quick getaway. Because what possible good could come of a friendship between a down-home country girl and the lord of the manor?
Amber had expected to see Jensen show up at the Broken R the next morning since he’d asked if he could see her breeding operation. But she’d thought he’d probably take his jolly good time, as the aristocracy was prone to do, and arrive late, driving a borrowed ranch truck, kicking up dust and trying to get used to having the steering wheel on the correct side of the vehicle.
What she hadn’t expected to see was him all decked out in English riding clothes and mounted on Trail Blazer, the gelding Quinn Drummond had recently purchased from her.
Still, here he was. And she’d promised to give him a tour. So she walked down the porch steps, carrying a mug of fresh-brewed coffee, and waved as he rode up.
When he dismounted in a swift, fluid motion, she sucked in her breath at the way his jodhpurs hugged his muscular legs.
Yet she stifled a grin, too. Who the heck wore fancy English riding britches in Horseback Hollow?
“Hi,” she said, which was about all she could muster, as she watched him stride toward her in a pair of swanky brown equestrian boots.
Did he think she’d invited him over to play polo? If so, he was as out of place on the Broken R as she would have been sipping tea in Buckingham Palace.
And speaking of being out of place, so was that little flutter that was racing up and down her spine.
He held the horse’s reins in one hand and reached out the other to her in greeting. “Good morning.”
Well, dang. The gent was certainly formal. She shifted the steaming mug to her left hand and accepted his handshake. But the moment his fingers wrapped around hers, her pulse rate spiked.
Then, upon his release, which was slow and drawn out, that little flutter took off like a flock of turtledoves, and she nearly dropped her coffee on the ground.
“I hope I’m not too early,” he said.
He was too everything. Too early, too formal, too good-looking. But her grandmother had raised her to be a gracious hostess, and she didn’t give voice to her racing thoughts. “Of course not. Can I get you a cup of coffee? Or tea? You guys probably prefer tea, right?”
“We guys?”
“You Brits.”
He smiled and gave her a slight nod of his head. “Actually, I was hoping for a nice pot of chicory cooked over a campfire. That’s what you country-and-western ‘guys’ drink, correct?”
The glint of amusement in his eyes sent her already soaring pulse rate into a loop de loop, but she reined it back down to earth the best she could and tossed him a smile of her own. “Fair enough. I guess we probably shouldn’t make assumptions about each other. So...? Coffee or tea?”
“Neither, thank you. Amelia cooked a huge breakfast this morning. I believe she’s going through what the maternity experts call ‘the nesting period.’ She can’t stop cleaning and organizing and freezing big pans of food Quinn refers to as casseroles.”
Amber laughed at the animated confusion in Jensen’s eyes. “I’ve heard about nesting. I would imagine the responsibility of bringing another life into the world would be a little overwhelming. She probably just wants to get everything in order.”
“I take it you don’t have children?” Jensen glanced down at her left hand.
She moved the mug handle around, not wanting to draw attention to the fact that her ring finger was very much unadorned.
“Nope,” she said. “No kids. But maybe someday.”
“My aunt Jeanne Marie said you live here with your grandmother?”
“Yes, it’s just me and Gram.” She dumped the rest of her coffee into a shrub near the barn, then set the mug on the fence post. “Actually, I only moved back to Horseback Hollow a few months ago.”
“Where were you living before that?”
My, he was certainly full of questions for a man who’d closed the door in her face when he’d thought she’d been a nosy reporter. She wondered how he’d like a taste of his own medicine. But she didn’t have anything to hide. Well, other than her possible job with Cowboy Country USA. But if that came to be, and it certainly looked promising, it would soon be out in the open as front-page news for the Cross Town Crier, the county weekly paper. And boy, was she dreading that day...
“I traveled around,” she admitted. “I was on the professional rodeo circuit for a couple of years and spent most of the time living out of a trailer.”
She waited for him to lift his snooty British nose at that revelation, but he just nodded his head as if he’d expected her response.
“Like a caravan?” he asked.
“A what?”
“A caravan. Isn’t that what you Americans call a recreational vehicle?”
“I guess—if it’s a whole bunch of them. Sometimes we stayed in motels or would bunk at a friend’s ranch. It’s a far cry from the glamorous world you’re probably used to living in. But I loved the rodeo life—the traveling and