Dating the Duke (The Aristocrat Diaries 2)

“Go and sit yourself down there, dear, and I’ll be right with you.”

“Thank you very much.” I walked away from the map wall and towards a much brighter corner of the café. Thankfully, the plant was further away from the table than it had looked from near the door, so I didn’t have to worry about bugs dropping into my food.

I shuddered as I sat down.

The rest of the café matched the colour scheme outside—dark wood flooring, white wooden tables and chairs, blue accessories, even powder blue walls. It all worked, tied in together by the same vibrant mix of colourful fresh flowers on each table.

I plucked the menu card from the holder and opened it out. It was exactly the kind of comfort food I was looking for—soups, various types of sandwiches served on different types of bread, salads, even all-day breakfast options.

The soup list was divine. There were classics like tomato soup, mushroom, oxtail, minestrone, plus fancier ones like potato and leek or carrot and coriander.

I was a little basic for those fancier ones. I was happy with a good tomato soup and a little bit of basil with some crusty bread, to be honest.

I moved the menu to the side, having decided on the most basic soup in the history of the world and pulled my laptop from my bag. It had a full charge, but I did have the charger with me just in case.

If this place even had somewhere I could plug it in.

I opened my laptop and fired it up in front of me. Maybe a change of scenery would be what I needed to get words down on this book. It’d been the bane of my existence ever since I’d typed the first words. My agent had insisted this was the best idea, and I now hated myself for agreeing to it.

It might have been the best idea of the three I’d proposed, but it didn’t mean it was my favourite one.

Lesson learnt not to give her ideas I didn’t like very much.

“What can I get for you, dear?” The auburn-haired woman appeared at the side of me for the second time today.

Goodness, her footsteps were completely silent. It was a little unnerving.

“Oh, gosh. I’m sorry, I wasn’t paying attention.” I picked the menu back up. “It’s my first time here. What would you recommend?”

“Oh. First time.” She paused and looked at me with narrowed green eyes. “Aren’t you staying at Bentley Manor? With the duke?”

You just had to adore villages, didn’t you? The privacy one could obtain was outstanding.

“Yes, I am. Adelaide Astley.” I offered her my hand to shake.

“Maggie Thomas.” Her hand was warm as she clasped it around mine. “You’re tutoring the littlun, aren’t you?”

I wouldn’t refer to Olympia as a littlun, exactly. “Olympia? Yes, I am.”

“You’re not from around here.”

“Neither are you.” I smiled.

Maggie gave a huge belly laugh, throwing her head back. “Well played, Adelaide. Forgive me, we’re all a tad interested about you.”

“Well, fortunately, I’m from a village much like this one, so it’s not unfamiliar to me.” I had a small laugh of my own. “But for today, I think I’d just like some food and to get a little work done.”

“I can’t help you with the work, but I can most certainly do the food. Now, did you want a recommendation?”

“Actually, I think I’ll go simple with the tomato soup,” I replied. “And a lemonade, please.”

She scribbled it down on a pad of paper. “Good choice. Soft or crusty bread?”

“Crusty, please.”

“Got it. Let me ring that through to the kitchen and I’ll get you that lemonade.”

“Thank you so much.” I smiled at her when she disappeared.

It soon dropped as I had to turn my attention back to my novel.

I saw no clear path to The End. I saw no clear road to The Middle.

Heck, there wasn’t even a crossroads to chapter six.

I tapped my nails against my laptop and stared at the page. I was stuck roundly in the middle of chapter four, and I had nothing.

Nada.

No inspiration.

No drive.

No desire.

I may as well have been writing a eulogy.

“You look troubled, dear,” Maggie said, setting a huge glass of lemonade with ice on a coaster next to my laptop. “Is work not going well?”

“You could say that,” I replied. “I need to get some work to my agent, but I’m utterly uninspired and have been for at least two weeks.”

“To your agent? What work is it?” She rested her hand on the back of my chair.

“I’m a writer. Well, an aspiring writer, really.”

“Do you write?”

“Yes, of course I do. Usually.”

“Then you’re a writer. You’re only an aspiring writer if you haven’t yet written anything, and it looks to me as though you have.”

I smiled at her. “I suppose you’re right.”

“Of course I am, dear.” Maggie straightened up and looked down at me. “If you’re struggling, why not simply write something else?”