“Americans,” he asserts. “That’s who you want working for you. American service is second to none.”
“But she had an American accent,” his much younger wife offers up in an annoying squeak as she declines the first course with a lift of her skeletal hand. “I’m on Dr Newman’s thirty-day reset,” she explains with a mildly condescending smile.
“You’re sure?” her husband asks, turning a little violently to her before swinging to me.
“Yes, Dr Newman said—”
“The girl?” he demands. “She was American?”
Griffin glances down the table, looking like a bastard holding all the aces. The analogy probably extends to the four spare ones he’d have shoved up his sleeves. I force myself to glare back as I picture myself knocking out his front teeth. I sincerely hope McCain’s mind-reading skills are sharp tonight because I’m going to need alcohol. Lots of it.
“All of his grace’s staff are from the local village,” Portia curiously answers on my behalf.
“I’m unsure what would possess you to say so,” I murmur, not sparing her a glance. I know I’m being rude, but I can’t help it. I feel like whipping up her chair, carrying her down to where Holland sits, and exchanging the pair. Which isn’t fair. I make a mental note to add Portia to my list of people requiring an explanation tomorrow.
Isla, Chrissy, Portia, Holland. Not necessarily in that order.
In Portia’s case, more than an explanation is necessary. We need to have a conversation about ending things. Though how you end something that never truly began, I’m not really sure. It’s not you, it’s me. But she knew that from the start. I didn’t pursue her. Quite the opposite. And I’ve always told her there was no future in this.
“I just meant—”
“McCain is from Edinburgh,” I say, cutting her off wearily. “George is from New York. Should I go on?”
“I just meant at the castle, darling.” I stare down to where she presses her hand over mine. Since when have I been her darling? She has certainly never been mine. “Of course you hire internationally,” she placates, as though speaking to an idiot. “You merely don’t have any American staff here on the estate.”
“What about Holly here?” Griffin calls up the table.
As I lift my gaze, my blood runs cold. As Portia’s hand rests over mine, so does Griffin’s over Holland’s, her eyes anywhere but meeting mine.
“I don’t think I’ve met Holly,” Portia says, picking up her glass.
“This is her,” he says, lifting Holland’s hand from the table.
I grit my teeth hard, foreseeing a trip to my dentist in the not-too-distant future. I begin to push back my chair, acting on instinct, not intellect. Portia’s hand tightens infinitesimally on mine, halting me in my actions and blessing me with some clarity. Portia would be why Holland refused to look at me. My hand holding darling, I think cynically. But she is right about one thing; to leave the table now would be wrong. It would be to play into his hands.
“She’s Archie and Hugh’s nanny,” Griffin offers happily. His gaze swings to Isla with a nod as though to encourage her confirmation. He and I both know he’s just making a circus of the whole thing. The server who is a nanny, the nanny who is a guest at the duke’s dinner table, sitting next to Griffin so serene and demure refusing to look at the duke who earlier dragged her out of the room. The duke, meanwhile, throws down drink after drink and glare after glare while his bastard half-brother plays at ringmaster.
It’s not Holland he’s trying to embarrass but me. Not that this makes me feel any less sorry to have put her in this situation. However, it could be that she may need to get used to it because I’m not going anywhere, and it looks as though neither is Griffin.
HOLLY
“Her name’s Portia,” Griffin whispers, bringing his mouth to my ear. I know why he does it; why he makes the moment between us look intimate. And I know why I don’t stop him. I don’t like being manipulated, but I find I like it even less when I look up to see the man who, not two hours ago, professed to a desperation for me sitting with another woman.
Another woman with a stupid name.
“Like the car?” I murmur back, counting on Alexander being too far away to understand how confused I feel.
“Like the ride of choice for any middle-aged man with more cash than sense.” Griffin gives me a sexy half-smile. Honestly, he must think I’m brainless. I didn’t want to be here in the first place, but for him to announce to the whole table that I was the nanny is nothing but low. Not that I’m embarrassed: I refuse to buy in to that. But I am not happy the fact that, dressed as a server, I was almost dragged out of the room by the duke. And now I’m sitting here at the other end of the table with the duke’s brother while the duke sits with someone else.
I don’t know which of us looks worse.
“They’re not married,” I murmur. This much I do know.
“I wouldn’t be surprised if they end up doing that long walk down the aisle sometime.” His gaze flicks Alexander’s way. “They’re two of a kind.” He frowns before his gaze moves back to me, brightening. “Like cyborgs. No feelings.”
Those are not my experiences of Alexander. The man I know has so much passion. Anger. Regret, even. And to believe everything he’d said tonight would be to believe he also has compassion. That he cares.
I didn’t want to think of you as destitute and waiting tables.
I didn’t know you’d be here.
And I believe him because I believe in the things his sister has said to me. And the people who work here, too. I guess a man of his position would be forgiven for having some level of arrogance. Hubris, maybe. But he’s not so arrogant as to believe he could have his cake and eat it too, I think. To agree with Griffin would be to believe Alexander would have his future wife and his potential side piece sitting at the same table. I just don’t see how that can be true.
Even if, out of the two of us, only one of us knows how to eat snails. Or a souffle. And, as I look down at my place setting, which one of these four forks is meant for fish.
My stomach turns over, nervousness washing through me again.
No, that’s not what this is.
I might not know either of these men well, but I know enough not to trust Griffin at his word. It’s more likely he’d be the one who’d use me. And that’s not about to happen.
23
Alexander
Dinner progresses through the courses without event, unless I count how easy the wine has flowed. I wonder if I’ll manage not to blame myself when I’m unable to stop myself from seeking her out once the table is cleared and this lot has fucked off to bed.
It’s little wonder she thinks I’m a dog as utterly unconvinced as she was by my explanation. How could I explain the only hand I had in this whole thing was to send her as far away from Griffin as possible? That I couldn’t stand the thought of her being with him, that I couldn’t trust myself, knowing where she’d be.