Thoughts and denial and a sick kind of hope weave around my head as a cat does ankles. But as the song comes to an end, my contemplations turn to dust as I watch Alexander tenderly slide away a lock of her hair before he bends and traces his lips against her ear.
“I mean, just look at that.”
“I am watching,” I mutter. I watch as I swallow over the ache creeping up the back of my throat as he lifts her hand and presses a kiss to it.
And then I watch no more.
So much for trusting in what is meant to be.
So much for not forcing things.
Except maybe forcing me to get away from him.
“Hey, Holly.” Ivy appears to my left, wreathed in a gold sheath dress and a wide smile. “And you’re Griffin, right?”
“Yeah, Griffin Middlemass,” he says, holding out his hand.
“Griffin Middlemass, QC, so I heard,” she adds with a tinkling laugh. “Hiding your light under a bushel is so not Hollywood. I suppose you’re more at home at the Old Bailey.”
“Oh, Griffin makes himself at home in all sorts of places,” Isla interjects, appearing next to him. “Oh, look at you. A rose between two thorns,” she adds, linking her arm through his. “You haven’t asked your big sister to dance yet.”
“Do you want to dance?” he asks uncertainly.
“Only all night long,” she says, tugging on his arm.
“Well, that went well,” Ivy murmurs. “Do you think she’s psychic?”
“Isla?” My gaze follows the pair. “Maybe she just feels a little sorry for me.”
“By stealing your dancing partner?” she asks with a laugh.
“No. I—” Why am I continuing with this? “Nothing is going on between Griffin and me.” I get the impression she wants to squeeze my cheeks like I’ve been the topic of conversation. I fix on a smile and pretend I don’t mind.
“I know. I have eyes. I also have advice. And an empty glass that needs rectifying.” She curls her finger comically, and I find myself following her out of the room to another, this one with a makeshift bar.
“A wee dram for what ails ye,” she says, thickening her accent as she pours two fingers of whisky into a glass and then passes it over. She pours herself sparkling water. “Up your bum,” she says, touching the rim of her glass to mine. “And that’s not a toast I’d recommend uttering in front of your husband on his birthday.”
“I’ll bear that in mind if I ever get me one of those.” I bring the glass to my now smiling lips. “You know, I’m beginning to get a taste for this.”
“Of course you are. What whisky will not cure, there is no cure for. Or so June would have us believe.”
“Oh, I met June!”
“Yeah, she said. She’s as mad as a box of frogs, but we love her.”
“I can see why.” When I say I love old people, I especially love the irreverent ones.
“Did she try to fix you up with Raphaël yet?”
“Yes.” Eyes wide, I nod.
“I think she must have a camera set up in his room or something. But I didn’t bring you out here to talk about our adopted granny and her wicked habits. I wanted to talk to you about the big cheese.” I must pull a face. The mention of cheese always make me think of Mookatill. “His grace, the duke.” Ivy mocks a little curtsy. Something tells me she’s enjoying this. “I don’t want to pry—no, that’s a lie, but I won’t. Anyway, I wanted to say this to you. Actually, I wanted to say it to you after that awkward dinner, which you were wonderful through, by the way.”
“I didn’t feel wonderful.”
“Well, no. No doubt you wanted to smash your plate over his head. But then you both disappeared afterwards . . . and then the hubby and I went for a walk, and we heard some pretty particular noises coming out of one of the rooms.” Ivy purses her lips to prevent a smile, but it spills from her eyes anyway. “Let’s just say, great minds think alike.”
Does that mean she was . . .
That they were . . .
“It adds a wee bit of spice to the relationship,” she says with a tiny shrug. “So, I’m just going to say this, then move on. I just feel like a mama hen watching you. Maybe it’s this pregnancy, not that you heard that news from me.”
“My lips are sealed,” I answer uncertainly. What the heck is she going to come out with next?
“Men can be arseholes.”
That’s it? I mean, tell me something I don’t know.
“The more powerful the man, the bigger the arseholery,” she says, leaning her forearm on the bar and pinching her fingers together like some TV mafioso. “I’ve watched that man—I watched him over the weekend we stayed at Kilblair, and I’ve watched him tonight. More specifically, I’ve watched him watching you.”
“That doesn’t mean anything. We’re not suited.”
“Bull. Two people cannot look at each other the way you two do, and it not mean anything. Yes, I’ve been watching you, too. And if I told you the things Dylan did to me, the pain he put me through, you’d think I was mad for being with him. But he’s worth it. We’re worth it, because I made him suffer just as much. Love makes fools of us all, Holly. It’s a cliché, but—”
“Clichés are a thing for a reason.” Yes, I know.
“Exactly. Now, stop trying to resist him and let him love you. You could be a duchess or a nanny or a waitress. Whatever you are, it doesn’t matter, so long as you have love.”
43
Alexander
“I don’t suppose you’ve seen Holland, have you?” I hate to ask. Hate to open another can of worms or annoyance as I pass Van at the bar.
“Did you blink, and she disappeared?” He smirks over the top of his glass.
“What are you drinking?” I lean against the makeshift bar top and peer into his glass. “Vodka?”
“Yes.” He sighs. “Sometimes, it helps me think.”
“And sometimes, it helps you fall down whole flights of stairs,” I reply, thinking back to our student days. “Stay away from my sister, Van.” I brush a weary hand through my hair. “She’s got enough trouble coming her way.” Divorce. A custody battle. A mountain of debt, I shouldn’t wonder. But we’ll get through it together. It’s what we do.
“Yes. Trouble,” he repeats pensively. “But what are you going to do about your trouble, Aleksandr.
“Crush it.” I flick my shoulder, unconcerned. I thought that the dance might do it. A tender look. A kiss to the cheek. I thought that even my blush might’ve helped—completely spontaneous—as at the end of our dance Jessica had offered to take me into the garden to blow more than my mind.
I’d declined, of course. And I haven’t been able to find Holland since, despite doing a couple of laps of both inside and out.
I signal to the barman and order a single malt, beginning to absently drum my fingers against the wood.
“Your sister’s husband is no good.”
“Tell me something I don’t know.”