“They didn’t teach us that at St. Andrews.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll keep it out of my toast this evening,” I promise him.
“I don’t know,” he says thoughtfully. “I wouldn’t mind seeing his face if you let that slip.”
I can’t help but smirk. “Consider it a graduation present.”
“Whose graduation is this?” My father storms into the breakfast room and drops a stack of magazines. A tabloid nearly knocks over a teapot.
“Edward’s, I thought.” I don’t bother to look at the cover. He wants me to, which is enough of a reason not to do it.
“This is not at one of your disco clubs,” he roars.
I bite back a smile at the thought of an actual disco club in London. “You’re being cryptic.”
His eyes narrow, and it’s like staring into my own. It’s the only feature we share: blue eyes. Although, his have gotten watery and mine brighter. It’s ironic given that I’ve never seen the man cry.
“I’ve overlooked your late-night debauchery because it’s been kept to appropriate venues. Everyone expects you to be a bit pent-up. No one thinks anything of those stories,” he says in a sharp voice. “But that is the bloody Oxford-Cambridge Club. Who is this woman?”
My eyes shift to the paper automatically, no longer interested in our skirmish, and land on her. There are two pictures. The first is one of her exiting a flat, utterly unaware that she’s been photographed. She’s in shorts and trainers, and she’s more beautiful than I remember—more beautiful than she is in the dreams she haunts. The other shot makes my balls ache. Someone snapped a photo of our kiss. I have a good idea who, and I’ll be sure to make Pepper pay. For now, I’m lost to the memory captured and smeared across a gossip rag. Her body pressed to mine. How her lips parted so eagerly despite her surprise. She’d folded into the kiss, submitting so naturally that I’d nearly picked her up and carried her off like a prize.
Why hadn’t I?
“Who is she?”
I barely process the question, still reliving the moment. “Clara Bishop.”
I’ve tried not to think of that name. Knowing it makes it hard to stay away. I’ve considered seeking her out, but something about her is dangerous. I can feel it.
“I know who she is,” he barks, breaking through my thoughts and bringing back to our confrontation. “Everyone knows who she is, but what is she to you?”
“What?” I can’t follow what he’s asking me. Because my father, who is neither perceptive nor empathetic, is not reading my mind. He doesn’t know that I’m wondering why even this picture has this effect on me.
“Is it her graduation? Is she your lover? How did you meet?” He bombards me with so many questions I feel as though I’m at a press conference.
“She’s a girl I met.” I try to sound casual, but I feel anything but. Clara is not just a girl I met. She’s a mystery. She’s the star of my nightmares. She’s featuring in my waking fantasies. I don’t know her at all. I tell him so.
“You can’t go around kissing girls at exclusive clubs, especially Americans. The press assumes you’re in love with her.”
“Love?” I repeat. “They have a lot to learn about me. It was Jonathan’s graduation—a party you made me attend.”
He ignores me. “What kind of message do you think this sends? People are speculating if it’s serious.”
“It’s not,” I say flatly. I walked away from her. I left her behind. I’d forced myself to leave her alone—to not seek her out. It’s more difficult to do with my father dragging her into the mix.
“There are reporters camped out at her flat. I hope you made things very clear for her and that she’s not the attention-seeking…” he trailed away, staring at me as I abandoned my breakfast and headed toward the quarters I used primarily as a closet. “Where are you going?”
“I won’t let them bother her. They have no business disturbing her privacy.”
“And you’re going to do what?” he demands. “Go tell them that? You’ve been away too long. I don’t have time to teach you your place, but allow me a moment to refresh your memory. The press doesn’t care what we say. They care what sells papers. Drawing attention to her will only sell more papers.”
“I should apologize,” I begin.
“You should have kept your cock in your pants in the first place. There’s a party starting in a few hours. You aren’t going anywhere,” he informs me. “And after, you won’t seek her out. She’s an unsuitable match in every way.”
“Not this again,” I grumble.
“Who you are seen with matters and an American? You won’t see her again,” he says with the air of someone rarely told no.
It’s why I say it now.
“No.” I continue past him toward my room and the waiting tuxedo. “Maybe I’ll fall in love with her instead.”
I won’t, but seeing the look on his face makes me almost consider it.
Garden parties cause me to miss the war where no one wore ridiculous hats or conversed in subtle barbs. There’s less courtesy among Edward’s pack of friends than in a mess hall, and the civility here is far less palatable.
And then there’s my brother playing his role: charming, debonair, studiously ignoring his boyfriend who’s sitting at a table alone while Edward flirts with a redhead.
If this is what my future holds—tea parties and false flattery—I wish I’d never come back. At least it would be easier to have never gone. I would be numb to this life now, conditioned to accept this as normal. But I don’t fit in here.
I don’t want to fit.
I’m about to quietly excuse myself from the festivities when Pepper Lockwood catches me. She’s smart enough to have brought her mother, so I won’t tell her off for what she did to Clara. That’s the limit of her intelligence, as far as I can tell, because it was stupid for her to piss me off. I know she took the photo, and I know she sold it. What I can’t fathom is why.
The Lockwoods blend into the scene well, their flowery blue dresses another floral addition to the landscape of partygoers. It’s amusing to see Pepper like this—her make-up toned down, along with her sex appeal. At the clubs, she prefers to wriggle on a hook like a piece of meat, waiting to catch something. I’ve never bit. Here, the intent is different. Both Lockwood women are on the hunt for husbands by the look of it.
“Alexander,” Mrs. Lockwood’s voice is coated with sugar as she takes my arm. “I can’t believe how much you’ve changed. You’re a man now.”
Thank god, she was here to inform me.
“But you haven’t aged a day,” I say. It’s not polite flattery. Thanks to modern plastic surgery, she hasn’t aged a day. “You could pass for sisters.”
Pepper looks less flattered by this proclamation. It’s all the more enjoyable because it’s true.
“Still a lady’s man.” Mrs. Lockwood flashes a mouthful of brilliant white teeth. “Unless the rumors are true…”
“Most rumors about me are true.” It’s easier to be what they want me to be. No one’s interested in anything else.