“I might have a date.” My smile is a reflection of hers and comes without the tingle of anticipation I know I should feel. It’s only natural, I tell myself. But it really is time I moved on.
17
Alexander
With my phone in hand, my thumb hovers over my assistant’s number for the second time in as many minutes before I drop it to the arm of the chair. Pressing call would only add selfishness to the list of my shortcomings. Because I wouldn’t be calling to issue him with some task. I’d be demanding Holland Harper’s number before instructing him to clear my schedule. For three months, at least.
Would three months be enough?
I’m sure I could give it my best shot.
Three months of fucking Holland to get her out of my system.
Or die trying. The corner of my mouth hitches because what a way to go.
Of course, it would also work the same the other way around. Three months for Holland to grow heartily sick of me. Three months of staid conversations outside of the bedroom, of her wondering why I’m so withdrawn. Of her tiring of my sullen face and preoccupation of all things not her.
Or three months for us both to fall in love.
In the mirror on the opposite wall, my tiny smile turns cynical. Three months is a relationship shelf life for me. I don’t own my own life. As the thirteenth Duke of Dalforth, I’m wedded to the name, my free time stolen, all thoughts of self growing dusty on a shelf marked self-indulgence, do not touch.
Oh, but it’s fun being the head of this dysfunctional family. I thought the dysfunction might’ve ended with my parents, a pair who married despite seeming to hate each other. But my mother has long since passed, and my father has been food for the worms for some ten years or more. He had no say in leaving the dukedom to me, but I’m sure he delighted in the fact that he was able to bequeath the kinds of debts that would ruin a small country. Along with more bastard offspring than I can count on one hand. Bad enough that he dipped excessively into the family coffers to fund these half siblings and their mothers, but he also passed on the responsibility to me. Without telling me, while he was living, that he was doing so.
He left me a noose. And a title. He left my poor sister nothing but nightmares.
Throwing back the remains of my whisky, I glance down at my phone in my hand. The temptation to embroil Holland in the clusterfuck that is my life seems to constantly burn at the pit of my stomach. I deserve a break, don’t I? Something of my own? I’d almost forgotten what desire felt like until her. Until now. And now I can’t seem to think of anything but how she felt under me and how her fucking smile made me feel. Sometimes, I even think I can smell her perfume, feel the silk of her skin like a memory turned real.
Perhaps this is an early onset of senility.
My grip tightens on my phone before I thrust it into my inside jacket pocket. I need to move the fuck on. Indulging in thoughts of that night is like suffering a fever dream. I haul my body up from the leather wingback chair. Now that I’m here, I might as well get on with what I came here for.
Passing by the kind of staircase that was built for debutantes to glide down, I push on the heavy oak doors, and I make my way through a room that was once referred to as a ballroom. At least, until I bought the place. Thornbeck Hall, once the country home of some baronet or other. Now the high altar to carnal pleasure with the kind of privacy protections that once suited the son of a duke trying to keep his reputation.
As I push past the crowd, acknowledgement ripples through its attendants. I feel so far removed from the club’s purpose that I can hardly believe I once owned this den of sin. It seems so long ago, back when I was hell-bent on living up to the Dalforth name. While I sold my shares long ago, I still hold a membership, though it’s been a while since I felt any desire to attend. Desire is not a sentiment that brings me to Thornbeck tonight. I’m here for business, not pleasure.
Like the waves for Moses, the crowd begins to part, allowing me to pass. Their sense of excitement almost palpable. I wonder if my distaste is likewise as I pass all the pretty faces. Pretty faces, painted faces, faces adorned in lace domino masks. Evening suits and cocktail dresses, lingerie as delicate as tissue paper, heavy duty bondage wear. A usual Friday night for the club, so I see, a den of dark, sensual undertones.
It excites me . . . not. I am patently too old for this. Too jaded. Too weary to fuck anyone who doesn’t engage more than my cock.
“Dalforth. What are you doing here?”
“I was just asking myself the same question,” I say, turning to find Matteo, one of my oldest friends, coming out from the throng behind me. “I have an appointment with Van,” I add meaningly, though Matteo’s expression doesn’t change. Instead, he kisses the cheek of the blonde currently vying for his attention.
“I’ll find you later,” he murmurs.
“Don’t be too long.” Her cat-like eyes flick to me with interest before she melts away.
“Don’t even think about it,” laughs my friend, flinging his arm around my shoulder to lead me through the room, hopefully to Van’s office. A man who knows I’m here but has yet to surface himself.
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” I reply evenly. “As I said, I’m not here to fuck—”
“Play,” Matt corrects.
“Fuck, play. It’s all the same.”
“Not in the eyes of the law.”
“That is not my problem anymore. As I said, I’m here to see Van. The current owner of those kinds of problems.”
“And he’s being his usual elusive self.” Matt doesn’t look surprised.
“So it would seem. I’ve been trying to connect with him all week.”
“And he’s dangled himself like the proverbial carrot until tonight,” he asserts with a cynical hitch of his lips. “Any idea why?”
“A very elusive carrot.” Annoyed, my brows draw together. “Apparently, tonight is the only time he can spare me an hour.”
“Alexander, he’s playing games. Tonight is the only time that suits his purpose.”
“One night is as good as any other. Days are much the same.”
“Except tonight is the first of the cabaret nights.” He places an ironic-sounding emphasis on cabaret. “He’s fobbed you off to secure your appearance for the opening night. Your attendance always used to help.” He presses his palm against another door, pushing it open to reveal a sitting room with leather chairs in dark corners, claret-coloured velvet sofas, and parlour palms.
“You mean the debauching duke of Dalforth,” I mutter with a cynical smile, lowering myself into one of the leather chairs.
“You must admit, there have been moments when you’ve fit that mould,” Matt replies, doing the same.
“Not for some time.”
“Portia must be keeping you happy.”
My next smile is a little mocking. “You never were very good at fishing.”
He shrugs, sort of suit yourself. “Anyway, I think you’ll find you’re known as the delicious duke of Dalforth these days.”
I snort at the ridiculousness of the notion.
“It’s true. Van might’ve dangled a carrot to get you here, but now you’ll see you’ve become that carrot.”