“And procure you a woman? What’s wrong with Portia?” he adds in a rare sign of frustration.
“I need someone who can act. Someone who can pretend to like me.”
“That does exclude her. She did only like your title.”
“Are you done playing, or should I bend over so you can really fuck me?”
“You’re not my type. But you know who just might be?” For a moment, I think he might say Isla. And then we’d really have a problem. “Holland.”
I manage a dry laugh even as my lunch turns to cement in my stomach. “Very funny.”
“Isla says she’s worth ten of your usual type. That she’s genuine.”
“Isla says, does she? Of course, she must be right.” I rake a hand through my hair. I didn’t expect the conversation to go this way. “So what sage advice did my sister issue? That I should just get on my knees and profess my ardent admiration? Let me tell you, I have been on my knees”—I fucking worshipped her—“and it didn’t help.”
“Perhaps you need to use your words, not just your mouth.”
“Let me handle my own life. You’re going to the Duffys’ party, so bring me a fucking girl. In a fancy dress. I promise I won’t even touch her.”
“If you’re paying for her, you can touch her.”
“But I don’t want to touch her,” I explain patiently. Or snap. I’m not really sure.
“Paying for it will be all that’s left if you do this. Women don’t like being played.”
Neither do men. Neither do dukes.
But that hasn’t stopped Holland.
“You’re going to fuck this up and let this girl slip through your fingers. I guarantee it, Aleksandr.”
The way he says my name sounds more Russian than it ever has.
“I don’t need relationship advice from a degenerate,” I snap.
“At least I know how to enjoy life, and I’m not frightened to live it. To take chances.”
“You live in an ivory tower. Rarely do you deign to join the rest of the world.”
“More and more lately, I find myself doing so. Living, I think it’s called. Taking a little something for myself.”
“I don’t need this existential bullshit.” Almost jumping from my seat, I stalk over to the window for the fifth time this afternoon. When Isla had let it slip that Holland had taken the boys for a picnic, I’d expected to be able to see them from this window. Perhaps like some bucolic scene from a bygone era. A picnic rug under the shade of the cedars, Holland in a sundress, and my brother lounged out like some petulant aristocrat. There would be no footmen in striped waistcoats or tea served from silver pots, but there would be a show. After all, Holland was to be its director.
But there has been no sign of them, and the afternoon is almost over. Perhaps their plans changed, and they didn’t picnic at all. Holland might’ve come to her senses and decided an afternoon with my brother was a fate not worth the payoff.
And if I’m so sure it is all pretend, why am I so agitated?
Because she’s not yours, my mind whispers, and you don’t trust him.
Because Holland is a prize you want to keep, not spoil.
“Existential. Exactly,” Van replies, bringing me back to the phone call. “I have found myself to be out of touch with the world, which is why I’ve sought to re-join it. So, who knows. Maybe I will find out for myself.” His tone is like an incitement.
“Find out?”
An incitement to violence, judging by his next words.
“What all the fuss is about.” The heavy pause allows my mind to fire up a dozen scenarios, and none of them pleasant. “Why your sister speaks so highly of her. Why you’re so keen not to tie yourself to her.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
I’ve tried—I have fucking tried.
“I hear it’s likely she’ll return to London. I could look her up when she gets here. You know, when she slips through your fingertips.”
I say nothing because I’ve just decided she won’t be moving back to London, not even if I have to bribe someone in the immigration department to cancel her visa. If I’m not good enough for Holland, there is no way on God’s green earth Van is.
“I can be her shoulder to cry on. Did I ever tell you I have a thing for crying girls?”
I press my forehead against the cool glass as I try to ignore the goading of my degenerate friend. My mind takes that inopportune moment to remind me of how Holland looks, though not when she’s crying. How she looks breathless with laughter, her head thrown back, thoroughly immersed in the moment. Or perhaps it’s the reminder isn’t so much about how joyful she looks but rather how it made me feel, knowing her joy was my responsibility. That I had made her feel that way.
As for her tears, I never want to see her cry because of something I’ve done. I never want to look at her face and see tears of recrimination.
But that is inevitable if she’s ever to become mine.
I find for the first time, I really don’t give a damn.
Because the truth never stays buried forever. Like all rotten things, it eventually bloats and comes bobbing to the surface.
HOLLY
“He is such a pussy,” Hugh mutters, kicking a patch of longer grass at the edge of the path.
“I am going to pretend I didn’t hear that.” Mostly because I’ve had enough of men this afternoon—big and small men. “But, I promise, if I hear anything like that from your mouth ever again, I’m gonna tell Chrissy. I hear she has a special soap for washing potty mouths.”
Oh, man, my head aches, and it’s not the aftereffects of the champagne.
“It’s not fair. Archie wasn’t supposed to hit him in the nuts. I thought he might’ve hit him on the butt!”
Well, he didn’t. And now Griffin is back at the castle with two ibuprofen and a cold compress between his legs, which, if he’s to be believed, should be on his throat because that’s where his testicles are currently lodged. What’s more, I almost had to carry him back there myself. No wonder my arms ache as I struggle back to the castle like a pack mule balancing the majority of the picnic stuff, including the basket and the empty bottle of champagne.
I should probably chastise Hugh for using nuts in that context. To heck with it, I choose not to pick this as one of my battles right now. Bad enough that I had to lump that great oaf back with a tearful Archie tagging along behind us, but then I had to explain the whole thing to Isla, and then go back to the scene of the crime and lug back all this stuff!
“Archie is six,” I say, swinging to face the kid, almost dropping the cricket bat in the process. “You shouldn’t have told him to hit Griffin with the cricket bat, and then you wouldn’t be complaining because there would be no punishment. And anyway, why am I carrying the weapon? Here!” I thrust it at him. “You carry it.”
“It still sucks.”
“If you do the crime, you’ve got to be prepared to do the time.”
“But I didn’t mean—”
“It was your idea, Hugh.”
And the punishment was their mother’s. Archie is currently banished to his room “to think on his behaviour and summon a suitable apology”. Hugh, meanwhile, has been sentenced to an afternoon digging over Chrissy’s weed-plagued vegetable patch.