That's all right then. I turn back to the window and decide I don't want to be near Chadwick anymore. He’s still talking.
“I never would have thought you’d throw everything over.” He shrugs. “I guess being king probably wouldn't be all that it’s cracked up to be.”
“What do you want?” I ask.
He raises a brow. “Oh, father would like us to get into bed together.” He laughs at his crude expression and waves a hand. “In the business sense, of course. He wants first pick of all building contracts. He knows you chose where to direct funds for all infrastructure projects. Of course I told my dad you and I are already lochschwagers.”
I translate the German word as wiener brothers but say nothing, mostly because I can’t quite believe someone would use that word.
Chadwick takes my silence to mean I don’t understand. “Ya know? Dipped our wicks into the same hole.” He elbows me.
Red lights flash behind my eyes. I take a step back. “I beg your pardon.” My tone could freeze hot coals.
“She's a great lay,” Chadwick continues, blithely unaware of my growing ire. “Pity she's a social climbing whore who—”
But I never find out the rest of that sentence. As soon as he says the words social climbing, my arm swings back of its own volition and thwacks Chadwick a good one, right in the face.
He staggers back, blood blooming in the corner of his mouth. My fist throbs. The pain feels amazing.
“What the fuck?” His shout draws attention from the rest of the room. He touches his mouth and his fingers come away red.
“Chadwick!” His father calls his son to heel but Cawthorne the Lesser is not listening.
“Oh, you fucking asshole. You're going to pay for that.” He launches himself at me.
“What ho, fisticuffs!” Lady Ursaline shouts with glee. There's a scrape of chairs as people move out of our way.
I launch myself at Chad again. I try to get another punch in but he blocks his face. Of course. He’s too pretty to take a punch there. I land one in his gut and send him reeling backwards, gasping like a banked carp.
“Chadwick,” his father snaps. The viscount heads for us but someone pulls him back.
“Was she a great fuck, Benny?” Chadwick snarls. “Or did she lie still under you and think of me?”
I wade in again but this time he gets a few punches in.
“Bastard,” he hisses.
“That's right,” I growl back. And something in me snaps. My secret’s out. My duty done. I don't have to be perfect any longer.
My next punch sends Chad reeling. I follow it up with an inept attempt to knee his groin. It hits his thigh instead and he staggers. He comes at me again, fists flailing.
“Where did they teach you that?” I sneer, giving him a taste of his own condescension. “Swiss boarding school?”
Chadwick howls, and rushes at me. I step swiftly out of the way.
I may have grabbed the back of his coat and sent him flying farther than momentum would carry him. Or maybe the thin panes of glass in the large windows should have been replaced two centuries ago. Either way, Chadwick flies head first into the window and crashes through the glass. His cry echoes as he falls.
Several nobles rush to the broken window.
I pop my cuffs and straighten my torn coat. “He'll be fine,” I tell the hushed room. “The rose bushes will have broken his fall.” And I turn on my heel and stride to the door.
Franz is there, entering. Late as usual, and looking more sheepish than usual. Probably bracing himself for a dressing down about his latest scandal.
I allow myself a brief smile. The cabinet might not want a bastard, but they’ll be tearing at their hairpieces within the first five minutes of dealing with Franz.
My half-brother’s head snaps up when he sees me. My tie’s askew, my coat is torn, and there’s blood trickling from the edge of my mouth. His jaw drops towards his feet.
I grip his shoulder briefly and pull him into a brutal hug that’s half chokehold. “You want the throne so much? It's yours.” He staggers when I release him, but a few guards reach out to steady him. I stride on.
“Benedict, Benedict!” someone calls after me. I pretend not to hear, but pause before rounding the corner when the queen asks, “But where is he going?”
“To fetch Frankie,” Lady Ursaline booms a reply.
“Who?” The queen sounds bewildered.
There’s satisfaction in Lady Ursaline's bellowed response. “His duchess.”
Frankie
“I’ve decided to count my blessings,” I tell Elvis. “For example: I could have actually been pregnant and forced to get an abortion.” I shudder. “I could have been a tad less intimidated by Mrs. Cawthorne and told everyone what happened, and my parents would have lost their jobs. And I never would have taken up pet sitting and met you.” I scratch the back of Elvis's neck the way he likes it. He bows his head so I can reach his itchy spots better. “And I never would have met Benedict,” I add softly. Like it or not, that goes firmly in the I do not regret column. Because I don't regret meeting the duke. His Grace. Dukey McDuke face, as Mina now calls him to make me laugh. My time with Benedict was wonderful. He wasn't meant to be. But it certainly showed me how perfect a man can be even if he has the world on a platter and a whole cabinet full of silver spoons.
“My Grandmère called the other day,” I continue to share. Elvis has proved a great therapist, these past weeks. “I told her the whole story. She cried. And so did my parents—I told them, too. I’m going home to visit next Christmas.” Elvis shakes his feathers, and fluff poofs out in a cloud. “No, I won’t leave you. I’m still going to university here—Daniel got me permission to take the first two semesters online. And when I’m done with this job, I’ll ask Lady Drey if I can come visit. I think she’ll take pity on me when I tell her you’re my second best friend.” I think she’ll understand.
I hold out my hand and Elvis hops on, stepping sideways up my arm and clawing up to sit on my shoulder. “Who shall we watch today? Cary Grant, or Jimmy Stewart?”
“Give it to me, big boy,” Elvis chirps.
“Philadelphia Story it is.” Another day, another movie marathon. It’s a lonely little life, but it’s mine.
The doorbell rings right before a drunk Tracy Lord tells everyone she has feet of clay. I turn up the volume. Whoever rang the doorbell will go away.
But it rings again.
“Go away,” I shout. There's more doorbell ringing, and then knocking. I leave Elvis watching the movie and head to the front door to check the peephole. It's Daniel, in white jeans, white boots, a white-faced watch, and a white shirt under a silky orange jacket. He looks ready for a photo shoot.
I push back my messy hair. I haven't bothered to brush it for a few days. My eyes might be a little red from my last crying jag.
Whatever. I open the door.
“There you are.” Daniel looks me up and down. “Miss Havisham.”
“Bite me.” I go to close the door, and he stops it with his elegant boot. So I back up and let him in. We stand awkwardly facing each other in the foyer. He reaches out and pushes back a tendril of my hair.