you were happily lunching at home in your bunny slippers while being at Cambridge at the same time, wearing itchy nylons?”
“Nylons don’t itch, which you would know if you wore them more often, and these are two entirely separate groups of people. They’ll never cross paths.”
Peaches suppressed the urge to swear at her.
“Why would I stake my entire academic reputation on you if this thing with Terry wasn’t time critical?” Tess asked reasonably.
“You’re a nut?”
Tess only laughed at her. “Go hop on that train. They’re talking all about the psychology of medieval lords and ladies this afternoon. You can fake that.”
Peaches glared at her. “You should be going not me—actually, your
husband
should be going. What do I know about the medieval mind-set?”
Tess looked at John. “Any advice for her? How do medieval men think?”
Peaches turned to look at John, who had come no doubt to help Tess in her nefarious goal of shoving an innocent unemployed former life coach in a direction she didn’t want to go.
John shrugged. “Find the enemy, kill him, hurry home while the wine is still cold and the bread not burned.”
Peaches scowled at him. “That’s not useful.”
“But it is accurate,” he said with a smile. “And having seen both times myself, I’d say not much has changed. My task now is to protect my family, see them fed and clothed, and carve out a bit of time for the beauty of music and art. The only difference eight hundred years ago was that I didn’t have a family and I was carrying a sword. I still grumbled about practicing the lute, still hated the itchy good clothes my mother put me in when I was a lad, and still happily put my feet up after a hard morning in the lists. Not much has changed but the amenities.”
Peaches heaved a heavy sigh, then looked at her sister. “They’ll still know I’m not you.”
“Did you bring pantyhose?”
“Yes.”
“Then they won’t have a clue.” Tess kissed her on the cheek. “Holly already has her couch made up for you.”
Peaches might have protested a bit longer, but Tess had given her a good shove toward the train and the momentum wouldn’t let her stop. She frowned at her sister over her shoulder, but found she couldn’t keep it up for very long. The frowning, not the looking over her shoulder.
The truth was, Tess and John just looked so perfectly happy and perfectly normal, she never would have guessed when John had been born or how long and vociferously Tess had shunned all sorts of fairy tales. And there Tess now was, countess of her own castle, married to an earl of his own castle who happened to be a medieval knight who could hoist a sword in her defense if necessary or just punch someone in the nose if blades would have been considered impolite.
Tess was safe.
Peaches found herself swept up by such a wave of envy, she stumbled. Tess started forward, but Peaches shook her head quickly, smiled, then hoisted her bag and tromped off to look forthe appropriate train track. Since there was only one, it was an easy find.
She didn’t want John. She wasn’t even sure she wanted a guy with a castle and a sword.
She just wanted her dream.
But if that guy, castle, and sword came with some sort of fairy-tale prelude, she supposed she wouldn’t argue.
She got on her train, found a seat, and settled back for a long ride nor’nor’east. She’d had several decent nights’ sleep with the invitation to the ball under her pillow and had fully resigned herself to the foolishness of pinning too many hopes on a single weekend. There was absolutely no way she would find anything special at Kenneworth House.
Her heart whispered differently.
She looked out the window to distract herself but found that watching the scenery go by was all too conducive to contemplating things she hadn’t allowed herself to before.
Perhaps, in the end, it wasn’t unhealthy to dream. Hadn’t she just begun over the past few months to tell her