“You don’t . . . like Sandy in that way?”
“I think the problem is I like him a little too much, but please don’t tell him I said that.” I hide my horrified expression behind a super soft tissue scented with eucalyptus.
“I would never betray your confidence,” Isla replies sincerely. “But I will say that I’m relieved it isn’t a case of him making it uncomfortable for you here.”
“No.” I swallow. “That’s not it,” I murmur, not quite able to hold her gaze. “I just know that if I stay here, no good will come of it.” No good can come of a twenty-four-year-old girl from Mookatill and a peer of the realm—a duke, no less.
It’s just not possible.
“Sandy will be very upset to hear you’re leaving us,” she says carefully. “As we all will be, myself and the boys especially.”
“That’s nice to hear.” And bittersweet in the extreme. I’ll miss Archie and Hugh and Isla. I just can’t contemplate anything else but being far away from Alexander right now. The temptation is just too great. And I know he’ll be upset—though at first, he’ll be super pissed. Whatever reaction he has to the news will be genuine because it’s not like there hasn’t been anything between us. It’s just that what is between us isn’t enough. And it never will be.
“You know, Sandy hasn’t shown interest in anyone in—”
I hold up my hand as I roll in my lips. My heart hurts, and my head thunders. I don’t need to hear what she has to say because this cannot be. I like Alexander—I like him way more than I should—but I don’t know him. Not really.
I know the sum of his parts. That he’s brutally good-looking, and he looks amazing in a pair of jodhpurs, in a suit, or a kilt. I also know my favourite memory ever will be the one when he’s wearing nothing but a sheet and a satisfied grin. Because the image is indelibly inked onto my brain. I know he’s comfortable in his own skin in a way I’ll never be, that he’s smart, and he’s charming, at least, he is when he wants to be. He can be an arrogant ass, and I can secretly dig it, though I’d never admit it out loud. And I know that his tongue should come with a warning label with a list of possible side effects ranging from a first-rate swoon to a loss of brain cells.
I know he loves his family, that he’d do anything for them. That he looks after the people who work for him. I know that he’s kind and honourable and principled, just as a man of his station ought to be. And that’s where I come to a stumbling block the size of Ben Nevis. Because I’m just a girl from a worn-looking house in a small town, still trying to find her way in the world. I don’t have what he needs, not beyond the physical aspects of our relationship
We’re not suited, and he’s not serious. Not really.
He wants me, yeah. And I want him. But he’ll tire of me eventually, but not because he’s a rat or unprincipled, but because he said from the start, he’s not the settling down type. I’m pretty sure you don’t get to his age without knowing your own mind.
Maybe one marriage was enough. Maybe losing her broke his heart. Maybe there’s no getting over that. But that’s exactly my point. I don’t know the reasons because I don’t know him.
And while I might not be so comfortable in my own skin, I also know my own mind. I know he has the makings of an obsession. Of a broken heart. And those are the kinds of temptations I could do without.
Alexander, the 13th Duke of Dalforth, was never meant for me. Not really.
“Well.” Isla swallows, and for a minute, I wonder if I should pass back the tissue box. “At least you’ll be here for Duffy’s party.”
I frown a little, then remember the conversation in the car.
“Batman,” I offer, and she nods.
“It’s apparently Batman’s birthday, and his wife, Ivy, is throwing him a party. Quite short notice, but I don’t know anything about Hollywood types.”
“I think she said she used to be a hairstylist.”
“Did she? Well, whatever she did, whatever she does now, I like her.”
“Me, too. But I don’t think I’ll be coming along. I mean, unless you need me to look after the boys—”
“No, not at all. That’s all taken care of, and Ivy made particular mention of the fact that she’d like to see you again.”
“Maybe you can pass on my apologies. Or I’ll write her a card or something.” I don’t need another repeat of last week’s dinner, and I mean, any of it.
“Holly,” she says, her posture and her gaze softening. “How many people get to say they’ve been invited to the home of a Hollywood star, let alone that they were invited to his birthday party—to Dylan Duffy’s birthday party? How can you not be excited? This is a first for me, too. It’s quite a coup, I understand. I expect my currency will fly through the roof with the PTA mothers.”
“I’m not much for parties. Besides, I don’t have anything suitable to wear.”
“I’m sure I can help.”
At this, I laugh. Laughter that deepens as her eyes coast over me, confidence exchanged for uncertainty as her brain catches up with her mouth. Nothing hanging in her wardrobe would fit me. I’m almost a foot shorter and not exactly what you’d call sylph-like.
“A dress is an easy fix,” she says, joining me in my amusement with a cheeky grin. “The important thing is that you see the invitation for what it is. An opportunity. Who knows what might transpire? Who you might meet? What kind of opportunities might reveal themselves? Work, for instance.”
“I don’t know. I don’t feel like partying, to be honest.”
“But you won’t be partying. You’ll be . . . What did Griffin call it last night?” she mutters to herself. “Networking!” she adds, in the way of eureka!
“Griffin’s going, too?”
“By default, I think. He wasn’t named on the invitation, but Ivy was kind enough to extend it to include him. To be honest, I’m not sure what he’s still doing here. He’s never stayed with us this long.”
“Doesn’t he think of Kilblair as his family home?” He seems to treat it like it is. Though it’s kind of ironic I’d be shocked. It’s not like “home” represents anything positive to me. Well, apart from the people who live there. Kennedy and the rug rat are the only things I love in Mookatill.
“It’s not truly his home,” she replies, taking the tissue box from my lap. She places it back on the coffee table. “Griffin didn’t live here as a child or even visit. He grew up in the Home Counties with his mother and the man he thought was his father. Both he and his sister.”
“Oh.” Such a small sound with so many implications.
“We were as surprised to find out about them as they were us,” she adds brightly. “Possibly just as pleased.” Her expression falls a touch. “It all came out in our father’s will. It turns out he was quite the profligate.”
Which is a nicer word than the one I’d use. It strikes me how Griffin was the one to tell me they were half-brothers back on the night I showered Dylan Duffy in haggis bonbons. Alexander has never referred to him as anything but his brother in my hearing. He’d never made the distinction, at least, not to me. He’d never made him sound any less than family. That says a lot about his character, for sure.