Page 1 of Is This Real or Just Pretend?

Bunbury, a village in Surrey

Lucien heaved a sigh and reluctantly came to his feet before shuffling off the train onto the deserted platform.

He squinted against the golden sunshine and brought up a hand to shield his eyes.

Of course the weather would be perfect today , he thought bitterly as he scanned the familiar bucolic countryside for the first time in five years.

Bunbury was just as he remembered: impossibly lush and adorably quaint.

It was the stuff of cozy novels and country house paintings.

A prized confection of a village tucked away in the south of England that was impossible not to love—unless you were Lucien.

And he couldn’t wait to get the hell out of here.

A pang of guilt immediately followed the unvarnished thought.

For though Lucien might have complicated feelings for the village of his birth, he had returned to see his ill father, whom he loved dearly, and who should not have to tolerate his sour mood.

The long walk to Atkinson House would be the perfect opportunity to sort out his head.

It was the country retreat of Philip Atkinson, owner of a very lucrative London accounting and investment firm, his wife Edith, who was the granddaughter of an earl, and their three daughters, Alexandra, Phoebe, and Winifred.

They were one of the richest and most well-respected families in the area and Lucien’s father had been the head coachman for over twenty years.

Lucien’s late mother had also once been the cook, so Atkinson House was, for better or worse, his childhood home.

He adjusted the strap of his battered satchel, a good-bye present from the staff that had helped raise him, and headed for the stairs.

He managed to find some comfort in the knowledge that, while Bunbury might be remarkably unchanged, he had changed quite a bit since he left for culinary school in Paris.

Lucien was no longer that shy, gawky youth more comfortable with his father’s collection of books than actual people.

He had experienced life in one of the most exciting cities in the world, with far too many tales to tell—a number of which weren’t fit for polite company—along with the veneer of worldly sophistication that came with it.

And yet you are still a complete and utter failure.

Lucien pursed his lips as he raced down the train platform’s stairs, as if he could outrun the voice in his head or the regrets that had become his constant companion these last few months.

And Lord knew he had tried. But nothing had silenced that ever-present reminder: not liquor, nor sport, nor the attentions of women.

Lucien had taken the biggest gamble of his life and lost. Now he would simply have to live with the consequences.

He reached the bottom of the stairs and turned onto the sleepy village’s high street, which amounted to little more than a few shops, and, naturally, a pub.

It was the polar opposite of the bustling cosmopolitan life he had been steeped in for years.

Paris overwhelmed his senses every single day, effectively silencing those nagging doubts or pestering thoughts.

Lucien hadn’t realized how very much he had come to depend upon that stimulation.

Bunbury felt impossibly flat in comparison.

His shoulders hunched against the sweet country air, as if it were trying to strip him of this hard-won refinement, and he prowled faster toward the main road.

Lucien was so fixated on escaping the high street that he failed to notice the elegant young woman exiting the confectioner’s shop until he walked directly into her.

She let out a shriek as she stumbled back and nearly fell over until Lucien caught her in his arms. As the young lady blinked up at him from under the brim of her wide straw hat, Lucien froze.

“Oh my,” she breathed and brushed a stray chocolate-colored curl off her face.

It was none other than Winifred Atkinson, once the object of all his foolish boyhood desires.

Only once? a conniving voice teased as a blush fanned across his cheeks and his heart began to gallop. In truth, she was the paragon against whom he measured all other women. And no one had ever come close. Not once. Not even in Paris.

Lucien cleared his throat and delicately set Freddie, as she was more commonly known, on her feet. Somehow she was even more beautiful than he remembered, with her heart-shaped face, rosy cheeks, and creamy skin—to say nothing of the voluptuous curves encased in her perfectly tailored peach gown.

“I’m so sorry, Miss Atkinson,” he sputtered as he stepped back. “Please, forgive my carelessness.”

“Entirely my fault, sir,” she insisted breezily. “I wasn’t watching where I was going at all.”

Sir?

Lucien blinked. She stared at him expectantly and the realization suddenly dawned.

Freddie didn’t recognize him. Though perhaps that shouldn’t be such a surprise.

After all, it had been five years since they had last seen each other.

And while she still looked much the same, Lucien had grown a good six inches and gained nearly three stone.

So then tell her who you are.

Lucien opened his mouth but couldn’t quite manage the words.

Freddie gave him a warm smile with just a hint of the mischievousness she was known for. Notoriously so. “Have we met?”

In truth, Lucien didn’t remember meeting Freddie because she had simply always been there. And he forever chasing after her. Little Lucien Taylor, the only son of the coachman and the cook. The skinny boy either with his nose stuck in a book or hiding up a tree. Sometimes both.

“Yes, but it was many years ago,” he answered honestly.

She raised a dark brow, intrigued. “And here I thought I knew every handsome man in Surrey.”

Her reply pleased him far too much, especially since he very well knew that Freddie was a seasoned flirt.

But she had never once directed such attentions toward him.

No, she had only ever seen him as a brotherly sort and a convenient playmate.

Now, though… now he saw the chance to experience exactly what he had been missing.

What he had ached for with a painful persistence all those years.

Lucien returned her smile, the one he had finally mastered in Paris, where the ladies praised his boyish charm. “Apparently not, but I suppose I can forgive the oversight.”

Freddie’s smile turned into a grin. “Well, then we must renew our acquaintance immediately,” she insisted, sliding her arm through his. “Though I’m afraid I have to hurry home. Do you live nearby?”

“Yes, just off of Ravenscroft Lane,” he replied as they strolled down the high street.

Freddie whipped her head to him. “But that’s where I live! Are we neighbors?”

“You could say that.”

Oh, but this was far too fun.

“Well, then you must be coming to the party tonight.”

Lucien nearly stumbled over his feet. He had entirely forgotten.

Every September Mr. Atkinson threw his wife an enormous birthday party and invited the entire neighborhood.

The whole household was in a tizzy for weeks beforehand, and Lucien always got caught up in the excitement.

Then he would watch the festivities from his usual perch on the massive, gnarled oak tree by his bedroom window that conveniently overlooked the back garden, waiting for just a glimpse of Freddie in a beautiful ballgown.

“Are you all right?” she asked as Lucien righted himself.

“Absolutely,” he said and flashed her another smile. “You’re quite the distraction, Miss Atkinson.”

Freddie preened a little and pointed up ahead, where a handsome bay tethered to a shiny black gig waited. “Would you like a ride home?”

He tilted his head. “Please.”

Just days before he left for Paris, he had watched Freddie dance with the handsome heir to an earldom during her mother’s birthday party, while each guest that passed below him chattered about an impending engagement.

Lucien didn’t want to believe it—Freddie was barely seventeen at the time and hadn’t even had her first season yet—until she strolled right beneath him in the direction of the summer house with the heir in question.

After taking a moment to argue with himself, Lucien slid down from his perch and followed a few paces behind, sticking to the shadows.

Then he ducked behind a tree and watched as they disappeared into the darkened structure.

No one else saw them, but Lucien knew what would come next. And that he wouldn’t be able to bear it. He could still recall the bite of the rough tree bark under his fingertips. How he dug his nails in harder and harder until he drew blood. Until he resolved to get as far away from here as possible.

But as the days turned into weeks, no engagement was announced.

It was as if the trip to the summer house had been nothing more than a figment of Lucien’s fevered imagination.

By then he was across the channel, enrolled in a Parisian culinary school and living with his late mother’s family.

Too far to do anything other than make a success of himself.

He cast a discreet look at her left hand, but it was bare. No ring. If the beautiful and vivacious Freddie Atkinson was still unattached all these years later, then it was only by her own choice. The idea was undoubtedly intriguing.

He handed her up onto the seat and climbed in beside her. Then Freddie took hold of the reins and off they went.

“Now then,” she began as the gig sailed down the tree-lined lane. “Am I ever to learn your name?”

“Certainly,” he replied with a smirk. But he intended to put that off for as long as possible.

Freddie tossed her head back and laughed. “Very well. If you won’t tell me, then will you at least answer some questions?”

“If you’d like.” Now, this would be fun.

“Where were you coming from?”

“London.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Beforehand, I mean.”