In my head, I do this whole shocked, grabbing my pearls thing. Are you contradicting the Duchess of Dalforth! Off with your . . . turtleneck. It’s July, for gosh sakes! But Her Grace is gracious. So I don’t.
“Scholars have been debating this for more years than I’ve been around, and I’m sure they’ll be debating it for many years more. But whether Ruben or an Antwerp contemporary of the man himself painted this piece, I think we can agree, it’s beautiful.” Eh. It’s not my favourite.
Let me put it this way—I wouldn’t give it wall space in my bedroom. In fact, none of the paintings along this hallway are my favourite. My favourite piece is only for private viewing.
“And here we have something a little more contemporary . . .”
We move along the hallway to another painting, and I do a little two-handed flourish like a flight attendant doing the pre-flight safety demonstration. Actually, I sometimes like to pretend I am a flight attendant.
In the event our airliner becomes a cruise liner, you may use your seat cushion as a floatation device. Lights on the floor will illuminate to guide you to the exit. Or you could just follow me because you’re not getting off this thing first.
I think I could get away with actually saying something along those lines one day, though not on Wednesdays. The oldies crowd are nothing if not attentive.
And that’s why I love them.
Anyone who tells you they became a teacher because they love kids is a liar. Teachers become teachers because they want a captive audience. And the teacher in me loves the oldies and their rapt attentions.
“Are those knickers?”
“I believe the correct term is breeches,” I reply, trying not to sound too smug.
“No, not in the painting. Those.” The rake-thin granny wearing sensible tweed points over my shoulder. “Hanging from the corner of the frame.”
I whip around and spot what she means.
Dammit.
No taking photographs of the Duchess of Dalforth jumping up and down, trying to retrieve a pair of silver La Perla panties please!
“These—”
“Are—”
“Just—”
“Need a hand, darling?” My husband’s honey-dripped drawl sounds from behind me, followed by the usual murmurs of pleasure, plus one exclamation.
“Ooh, look! The duke is here!”
“Ah, yes. Hello, sweetie.” I turn and shoot him a smile as a chorus of “ahhs” sounds around us.
“Oh, look, the duke is joining us.”
“Such a handsome man. So well . . . put together.”
That one usually comes up when he has those damn polo jodhpurs on. They don’t leave a lot to the imagination.
The duke joins our little tour groups occasionally, and I hear it’s become a bit of a treat that the tourists look forward to. Will he be joining us? Won’t he?
Just typical. I lead the tours, and he gets the accolades.
No one seems to have gathered that he prefers to tag along on Wednesdays. He likes the Wednesday tour groups best because the oldies tend to be a little deaf and a little slow. It means they miss his filthy whispers, and when he grabs my hand, pulling me ahead of them, they generally can’t keep his pace. He likes to whip me around some corner or other and kiss the living daylights out of me.
My husband does seem to have a thing for hallways and walls, come to think of it.
But if you’re wondering if that’s how my panties come to be dangling from a picture frame, it’s not the result of a wall-based assignation. He’d peeled them off with his teeth last night after catching me halfway up the staircase.
I was running away from him.
We both love the thrill of the chase.
But back to the matter in hand.
“I think one of the cleaners must’ve left behind a cleaning cloth.”
With a languid ease, Alexander plucks down my underwear. That sounds worse than it should have, considering we’re standing in front of a party of twelve senior citizens.
“I think we must be paying the cleaning company too much,” he murmurs, sliding the silver-coloured lace into the pocket of his pants.
“Maybe. I mean, yes, if they’re not doing their job properly.”
“He means because they were La Perla knickers,” another woman offers up. All heads turn to her. Puffed up with the sudden attention, she carries on. “I used to work in the lingerie department in Selfridges, the department store.”
“Oh, how interesting!” I say, using some approximation of Isla. I’m thinking of having a little bracelet made with the acronym WWID to remind me, when in doubt in the role of the duchess, I just need to think:
What. Would. Isla. Do.
“Now, if I can just direct your attention to—”
“Three hundred pounds, some of their knickers cost. Scandalous, prices for a tiny scrap of fabric!”
How much?!
A round of scandalised “oohs” and “aahs” break out, along with one or two discussions about how you can get a three-pack of knickers from Marks and Spencer’s for under ten pounds.
I pull a meaningful face at my husband. A sort of, see what your shenanigans have done.
But he just chuckles. Then he rouses the crowd.
“Ladies and gentlemen, the chef has just asked me to let you know there are scones and clotted cream in the kitchen if you’d like to pop down there and sample them.”
“Will there be tea?” asks a little old lady with a walking stick and vivid red hair. “Can’t have elevenses without a proper cuppa.”
“I’m sure you’ll manage to charm him into popping the kettle on.”
“Dougal is going to kill you,” I say as they trudge off towards the kitchen. “And so will Isla when she finds out.” We’re supposed to direct them to the coffee shop after the tour, which you can only get to through the gift shop.
Cha-ching!
“Who’s in charge here? Me or Isla.”
I fold my arms. “Come on. You know better than to ask that.”
“My name is above the door,” he protests.
“If you want to keep buying expensive panties to use as slingshots, you let her do her thing.”
Isla isn’t in charge of the day-to-day running of the castle anymore, being too busy with her own life and businesses, but I still defer all Kilblair matters to her. This place seems to run through her blood.
“You’ve got that look in your eye,” I tell him as he takes my hand and leads me along the hallway.
“Where are we going?”
“To your favourite room.”
“Our bedroom isn’t along here,” I tease. But I know what is. My office. My study space, not that I do a lot of studying, but I do store a lot of books there.
Without letting go of my hand, Alexander opens the door, allowing me to precede him.
“You just want to look at my ass.” I direct my words over my shoulder and flutter my lashes just a touch.
“Always,” he replies as I turn back and smile at my favourite piece of artwork in the building. Hanging on the wall next to my mint green couch is a montage of posts printed from Kilblair’s Instagram page, the page I now curate. But it’s not all fun and games being the duchess. Sure, I get to take pretty pictures, and I get to hang out with the older folks once a week. But there’s a seriousness to the job, too. Like coming up with events to raise funds for a new roof and helping out at the local primary school, as well as hosting a vast array of fancy parties. McCain does most of that, but I’ve had to learn the ropes. I bet I could get a job as a butler now. You know, if I ever get sick of being a duchess.