“Will this be a waste of time, do you think?” I ask, cutting through the bullshit. “If you’re standing there with the same opinion of me you had a few weeks ago, I’d rather save my breath.”
He laughs and tosses back the liquor before pouring himself another shot, this time sipping on it slowly as he turns to glance at me over his shoulder. His dark eyes hold me captive.
“Do you want a glass?” he offers, holding up his own.
“No thank you. I don’t drink hard liquor this early in the day.”
It’s meant as a barb, and he takes it as one. “I don’t either, except when I’m locked in a room with a feral cat.”
I narrow my eyes. “You see that’s rude, don’t you? You can’t expect me to like you when you say things like that.”
He chuckles under his breath and shakes his head, turning toward me fully as he makes his way back to his spot on the couch. “Yes, well, you struck first with the insinuation that I’m an alcoholic, so neither of us has clean hands here.”
I refuse to admit he has a point. Instead, I walk over to the side table to pour myself a small serving of the same liquor he’s drinking, realizing I might need it. It’s hardly a shot’s worth, but still, when I take the first small sip, I know I won’t be able to finish it.
“That’s horrible,” I hiss as it burns its way down my throat.
“It’s thirty-year-old single malt whiskey. My grandfather’s favorite.”
Good thing he can’t see the face I’m making or he might be insulted.
“Were you close with him?” I ask, venturing into polite conversation. We might as well try.
“Extremely. I spent more time with him and Cornelia than I did with my own parents.”
“Oh? Why’s that?” I ask, walking back across the room to take a seat on the couch facing his.
“Because, like you, I lost my mother and father when I was a young teenager.”
“How?” I frown and lean forward, curious to gather pieces of humaneness from a man who seems to have so little.
His reply is issued with a clipped tone. There’s no sentiment behind it. “Cancer took my mother when I was thirteen, and my father returned to England that same year.”
“So he’s still alive?”
“Yes, but we haven’t spoken in years. To me, he’s as good as dead.”
His words rub me the wrong way.
“Spoken like someone who has a choice in the matter,” I point out.
“Of course, compared to your position, it must seem cruel of me to say so, but our situations are entirely different. From what I understand, you were close with your father. I never had a relationship with mine, and what tenuous bond we did have disintegrated completely when he abandoned me to move back to England after my mother’s death.”
“You could have gone with him.”
“I wasn’t invited,” he replies curtly before taking a sip of his drink.
My stomach churns thinking of Nicholas at the age he was in the portrait upstairs. A young man with no parents, not so unlike me.
“Was he upset about your mother?” I venture. “Is that why he left suddenly?”
I know people make poor decisions when they’re grieving. It’s not exactly an excuse, but maybe it’s a reminder that we’re all just humans trying our best.
He laughs, and it rings out harshly through the room. “Not in the least. My mother was a dollar princess. Have you heard the term before?” His bold dark eyes seek out mine, and I find I can’t look away. “Her marriage to my father was arranged for very specific benefits. The Cromwell wealth kept the Hunts’ English estates afloat, and in exchange, my mother became a countess. Cash in exchange for a title.”
“How sad.”
His gaze pierces mine. “It happens every day. Don’t delude yourself.”
I sit back, wounded by his sharp rebuke.
He sighs and looks away to clear his throat, seemingly remorseful, though he doesn’t say so. “Anyway, my father was glad for the freedom. No pesky wife and kid holding him back anymore.”
“I’m sure he loved you in his own way.”
“I gave up that naive hope a long time ago.” He drains the rest of his drink. “And no matter. I had more family than I knew what to do with, my grandparents and everyone here at Rosethorn. I didn’t miss him all that much.”
“How lucky for you.”
I didn’t share the same luxury, and no doubt from his conversations with Cornelia, he knows it. Realization seems to dawn on him, and he glances back to me. For a moment, we sit silently staring at one another, and for the first time since we met, I feel like there’s a tether within reach if only one of us would grab it.
He frowns, his eyes holding mine captive.
“I can’t figure out who you are, Maren,” he says, tipping his head to the side. My heart hammers painfully in my chest as his eyes search mine for answers. “Are you a con artist with a devious plot or an innocent lamb continuously thrashed by unfortunate circumstances?”
I know which way he’s likely to lean. Too many people have come before him, expecting the worst of me. I don’t have tolerance for it anymore.
I stand and give him a sour smile. “The wonderful thing about my situation here at Rosethorn is that it doesn’t matter who you think I am. Your opinion is of no consequence.”
Then I turn and leave the room.
16
Nicholas
Before dinner, I go out on my boat to clear my head. It’s a futile endeavor. The wind doesn’t take me far, and I still have energy to burn when I return to the marina. I drive fast on the way home, taking Ocean Drive around the long way, angry with tourists for keeping me from speeding along the winding road. It takes me a long time to get home, but I’m no more satisfied with myself as I loop my car into my parking spot and charge in the back door.
Rich smells waft out from the kitchen, and I’m reminded that I’m likely running behind. I still need to shower before the meal, so I take the stairs two at a time and head straight for my room.
Bruce has already pulled out a dark blue suit for me to wear, hanging it on a hook outside of my closet with an accompanying white shirt. No tie tonight.
I fly through my shower and take the time to shave my five o’clock shadow, knowing my grandmother will appreciate the extra effort. I comb my hair back and slip on my jacket, staring at my harsh expression in the mirror.
It seems my afternoon with Maren is bleeding into the evening. I wonder if she’s still upset from this afternoon, but I’m not left with the question for long. We run into each other out in the hallway on our way to the grand staircase.
She’s wearing a tight off-the-shoulder dress that’s the exact same shade as my suit. It hugs her body and draws my gaze down her curves to the slit that cuts up and exposes one of her tan legs.
I hold out my arm for her to take. It’s the polite thing to do. We’re both going down to dinner, and if she were anyone else, I’d offer the same gesture.
She reluctantly accepts.
“About this afternoon—” I begin to say as we start to walk, but she cuts me off.