Her inhalation is soft but distinct, her eyes dark now, no longer affected by the light but darkened by some other consequence. By my nearness, by my fierceness, her gaze charting my shoulders down. She smells like gardenia and looks like she belongs to me. She should belong to me.
“It’ll pass. You’ll find someone else.”
“You’re wrong.” I know this for certain. What I feel for her is like being in the grips of an obsession, and unlike anything I have ever felt.
“You’ll find someone more suitable.”
“Say that again, and I’ll rip off your underwear, and tongue-fuck you senseless to prove to exactly how unsuitable this match is.”
“It isn’t . . .” Her voice whispers soft and silkily between us before her lashes flutter closed. I’d like to think she’s imagining it, seeing herself. I reach out to touch her face as her eyes languidly open. Hungry, ravenous eyes, eliminating the need for words.
“Holland.” Her name is a plea. “I want you to give us a chance.”
I don’t get to her answer as the door to my study suddenly swings open.
“Uncle Sandy, it’s not Holland that should be in trouble,” Hugh announces, almost skidding into the room. “It’s me. I’m the one that’s responsible for breaking the statue.”
“Hugh. This is not how you enter a room. Close the door and knock.” So I can ignore you. So I can tell you to come back later. I should’ve locked it. I would have, but I didn’t want to turn to find her climbing out of the window.
“Yes, I will, but Holland shouldn’t be here. I should be the one you’re angry with.”
“I’m not angry,” I retort, sounding, well, angry. Thwarted. Annoyed. Sexually frustrated, with a cock as hard as a concrete fucking pole.
“Yes, but I slid down the stairs on a tray.”
And I was the one who most likely gave him the idea to.
“Hugh,” I begin warningly. “You need—”
“I’m the one to blame,” he insists with such passion, anyone listening in might think Holland was for the noose.
“Your honesty is admirable, and I fully intend taking this up with you soon, but for the love of God, Hugh, bugger off!”
“No, Uncle Sandy,” he says, taking another step into the room. “I can’t. You see, Holland was covering for me. Mother was upset that day, and she didn’t want to make her day any worse.”
“Hugh!” My jaw flexes. I regret raising my voice. I regret making him look at me that way. I’ll regret it more later, and I’ll apologise, reassure him that I don’t give a fuck about the statue, that Holland isn’t in trouble for anything other than frustrating the life out of me!
But as Hugh’s head drops, my heart gives a little twist. He’ll survive, meanwhile I—
“What is it now?” I shout as the door begins to close, only to open again immediately.
“Ah, there you are, Holly,” my sister announces, her expression as bland and as false as any mask. “Do you have a moment?”
“Since when has my study become Piccadilly Circus?” I growl, referring to the amount of traffic it’s receiving.
“Because of Eros, I imagine,” she answers, her eyes flashing angrily.
I left myself open to that, I suppose. Eros, the god of love, does have a monument. Piccadilly Circus, not here in my study. Though I should imagine I currently resemble one of the more vengeful deities than the god of love.
“Holly?” she repeats. “Hand her over.”
“She’s not a thing,” I growl, my eyes meeting Isla’s over the high back of the chair. “You can’t even see her.”
“No, but I know she’s in here.”
I look down as Holland ducks under my arm, poking her head and a quick wave around the side of the chair.
“Ah, there you are,” she announces with a triumphant smile.
“Excuse me.” Underneath me, yet not in the way I want, Holland turns so her shoulder meets my chest, as though she’d nudge me out of the way.
“No. You aren’t excused. We’re not done here yet.”
“Sandy, don’t be a dick,” Isla scolds.
“Mummy said dick,” whispers an awe-filled Archie from somewhere behind the door.
“Mummy is about to say a whole lot more if your uncle doesn’t pull his head out of his rectum. From where I’m standing, this looks like a clear case of sexual harassment.”
“The chance would be a fine thing in this room,” I mutter.
“I’m sure the newspapers would have a field day with that,” she answers tartly.
I glower Isla’s way, not because of her idle threats but because it’s clear Holland and I can’t continue with an audience.
“Excellent,” Isla says as Holland reaches the door. “I suppose we’ll see you at supper,” she adds, glaring back at me. As my sister moves to the side to allow Holland to pass, I call out her name, and she turns.
Holland reluctantly turns. “What?”
Her expression is blank. I suffer the sting of it as I settle myself back against the desk in a lounging sort of arrangement.
“You might want to alter your form of address, given your concerns,” I drawl. “You said yourself, you don’t want to give anyone at Kilblair anything to gossip about.” Contempt drips from my tone. How does the saying go? Might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb?
“You want me to call you duke?” she replies as her mouth flattens into a mutinous line.
“Your grace is the correct address.”
My sister’s humourless laughter floats in from the hallway. I’m heartened to see none of us is truly entertained.
“As you like, your grace,” Hollands murmurs, sliding me a look that perfectly embodies her contempt.
But she’s to be pitied. Because I mean to keep her. And if that makes me like my father, then he’d better save me a seat next to him in hell.
30
Holly
One Uber. There is exactly one Uber in the village. And apparently, he’s on the way to the train station in Inverness, which is a ninety-minute drive away, to pick up his brother. I think this must be what it felt like to live in the 1800s. It’s a fifteen-mile walk from the castle to the village, so Chrissy said, but that’s from the entrance gate, not the kitchen door. There are cabs, of course, but they come from a nearby town. So I may as well wait until the guy with the Uber comes back. Meanwhile, I guess I’ll just order another of these, I think, waggling my glass to catch the attention of the bartender. A woman of indeterminable age and improbable hair colour.
I wonder if I’d look good with pink hair. I guess it would match my cheeks when I’m around Alexander.
Ah, Alexander. That ass. That frustrating, sexy, solid muscled ass. How did we go from I want you to give us a chance, my mind intones in its approximation of his deep baritone to, you may refer to me as your grace?
And you may kiss my ass.
I drain the remains of my beer because there’s a reason I’m drinking alone in the village pub. And that would be one Alexander Dalforth.
What have you got to lose Holland?