about tumbling into the murky river was as foreign to her as thinking of Hank McCauley as Prince Alexi.
“We should be going back to the hotel,” she said. She wasn’t sure when exactly she’d lost control—whether it was when she’d first knocked on his screen door or when she’d decided to accompany him to the Riverwalk—but she was certain he was now making decisions for them both. While that realization should have caused panic, at the moment she only felt an increasing interest in what he would insist upon next.
“With any other woman, I’d take that as an invitation. But I kind of doubt you were asking me up to your room, were you?”
“Of course not!” she managed to squeal as he steered them across the floor between some very young dancers and a middle-aged pair. How he avoided the other couples was a complete mystery. “We barely know each other.”
“How much more do you need to know?”
“Well, I…That’s not what I meant.”
“You sure are cute when you’re flustered, Lady Wendy.”
Instead of feeling outraged, she had the insane urge to giggle. British peers did not giggle. She could almost hear her father’s censure, all the way across the “pond.”
“Oh, pooh,” she whispered as they neared the table where more drinks awaited.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. I was just thinking about my father.”
“It’s not good to tell a guy that he reminds you of your father.”
“Oh, you don’t! Believe me, two men could not be more different than you and the Earl of Epswich.” She desperately needed to change the subject before Hank started asking her more personal questions that she had no intention of answering—yet might find herself responding to, anyway.
“That chap over there is how I imagined most Texans,” Gwendolyn remarked, nodding toward a couple in fancy Western attire gliding across the dance floor. “He’s big and brash and bold. His hat alone is as large as a brolly. Do you think he drinks as much beer as his physique indicates?” The middle-aged man sported an enormous beer belly that didn’t keep him from holding his partner, a rather petite woman near his own age, close against his torso. She wore a full denim skirt, a Western shirt and boots that matched his outfit perfectly.
“If you’re asking me about the size of his beer belly, I’d have to say no. It takes more than beer to grow one that large. I’d say he had some help from chicken-fried steak and homemade pie à la mode.”
Gwendolyn couldn’t help herself. A great gasp of laughter gurgled up from inside her, erupting in a completely unladylike display of mirth. She tried to control herself—her mouth was too wide for grinning, her cheeks too dimpled—but the effort left her with watering eyes and a sore jaw.
“So you can smile,” Hank remarked, leaning close across the small table. His finger touched the corner of her mouth, making her breath catch and her grin fade. “I was wonderin’. And I can see now that there’s nothin’ wrong with your teeth. I guess I made a big mistake thinkin’ you were tryin’ to hide ugly yellow chompers.”
“Chompers?” She couldn’t control another giggle. “Really, you are too absurd. Wherever do you get these ideas, not to mention these sayings?”
“Comes with the territory, darlin’,” he said with a grin. “Kind of like Resistol hats and beer bellies.”
She got the laughter under control. “I thought cowboys wore Stetsons.”
“Not really, at least not for everyday. That just sounds good. We also don’t wear ten-gallon hats, tuck our jeans into our boots or ride horses down main streets.”
“And you certainly don’t have a beer belly.” The words burst forth before she could control her errant mouth. What was it about this man that caused her good sense to flee like tender petals in a March wind?
“Nope,” he said, running his hand over his flat stomach as he grinned in a way that made her want to smile. “Don’t plan on getting one, either.”
“I’m certainly glad to hear that,” she whispered, leaning toward him with an increasing lack of restraint. “I’d hate to have to compare yours to that chap’s over there.” She pulled back, startled at the way her mouth was running ahead of her brain. “Not that I would…or is that something men do? Compare the size of their—”
“Lady Wendy! I’m shocked you’d think such a thing. We use the same standard as the rest of the U.S. of A. to judge manliness.” He paused, grinning slowly, making her heart race in anticipation of the next outrageous remark he was about to make. The next remark she’d prompted him to make.
Ridiculous. She’d never encouraged such behavior before.
“No,” he continued, “here in Texas we don’t flaunt the size of our beer bellies. We use something far more personal.”
She felt like crawling beneath the tiny table. “Why don’t we forget I brought up this subject?”
“And miss letting you in on some cultural learning? No, you have to know that we judge a man by the size of his—”
“Mr. McCauley!”
“—truck.”
She leaned back in her chair, her eyes blinking in disbelief, before the laughter bubbled forth once more to overwhelm her senses.
HANK FELT THE EVENING had been an unqualified success. He’d had a rip-roaring good time showing Lady Wendy the Riverwalk and one of his favorite honky-tonks. She’d enjoyed her first tequila sunrise, her first taste of nachos and her first Texas two-step. Although she’d insisted they could only afford one hour away from his princely training, he’d managed to turn one hour into nearly three. At midnight he’d told her goodnight at her door, holding her hands and telling her this lapse in her precious timetable wasn’t her fault. He’d told her that he would have taken her to the Alamo if he hadn’t been so intimidated by her need for “shedyules.”
Lord knows, she couldn’t be blamed for his faults. He was a bounder, as his dearly departed grandma used to say. He loved to tease and party and dance. He loved to make women smile as much as he loved to hold them in his arms. Lady Wendy was a particular challenge due to her strict British upbringing and inflated sense of duty, but when she did unwind…shoot, boy, howdy!
Hank pulled off his boots and stretched out on the bed. He stuffed a few pillows behind him before reaching for the notes Lady Wendy and Milos Anatole had given him earlier in the evening. Forms of address, proper etiquette, drafts of speeches and a schedule of events had been stressed for several hours while Milos had cut his hair “to a civilized length,” smeared some sweet-smelling lotion on his face “to eliminate ruddiness,” and fitted him with “a proper wardrobe.” Hank supposed Wendy thought he hadn’t been paying close attention to all her instructions, but he had.
Studying an hour or so more wouldn’t hurt. He had no intention of embarrassing her or jeopardizing the monarchy of Belegovia—whatever that meant.
Even more now than when she’d shown up on his porch, he wanted to help her succeed. For reasons he couldn’t comprehend, saving Prince
