Total pages in book: 192
Estimated words: 183663 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 918(@200wpm)___ 735(@250wpm)___ 612(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 183663 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 918(@200wpm)___ 735(@250wpm)___ 612(@300wpm)
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.
Perhaps my reasons for getting her out of London were somewhat nefarious, I consider, glancing down the table at my brother, who is enjoying this dinner with gusto and naturally, entertaining those around him with brilliant ease. Even Portia seems to wish she’d been seated nearer him, though possibly that might be more to do with wishing she was sitting anywhere else but with me on account of my being unable to behave decently to her, either.
Holland. Isla. Chrissy. Portia. All the women in my life seem in need of apologies and explanations. Only, Holland wasn’t meant to be part of my life. I tried so hard not to involve her, for her sake. But that has backfired thanks to fate or some other fuckery, and I have no intentions of letting her go this time.
A point I intend to make clear to her tonight.
“Oh, we just love Scotland. I’m one-eighth Scottish, you know?”
During the meat course—saddle of venison with shallots and baked celeriac, not that I seem to taste it—it became apparent that the remaining seven-eights of Mrs Horowitz is alcohol. Forty percent proof.
“I tell you, duke, the location scouts did a great job finding this place,” her husband says over the top of his wife’s snorting giggle. “This movie is gonna be a hit.”
“I wish you every success,” I reply, with a slight lift of my glass as I remind myself the only reason I’m not with Holland right now is because of my responsibilities. The responsibilities of my family, my name, and all it entails.
“Never mind Tollbridge, tourists and fans will be flocking to this place to get a little Rory Roy!” he exclaims.