Total pages in book: 127
Estimated words: 127368 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 637(@200wpm)___ 509(@250wpm)___ 425(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 127368 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 637(@200wpm)___ 509(@250wpm)___ 425(@300wpm)
“This, I can’t debate,” Lou replied, again appearing anxious, but not about our sojourn to the bucolic north and a possibly haunted house, but that perhaps Daniel Alcott wasn’t the right man for Portia.
There was a knock on the door. I went to open it.
It was a uniformed maid, not the one who’d asked about my hair and makeup, nor one of the two who had brought in tea. She was the one who’d escorted us to our rooms in the first place.
It seemed this massive house had a massive staff.
Guess it was six twenty.
“Hello,” I greeted.
“Miss Ryan,” she said, glancing at Lou. She dipped her chin then asked, “Are you ready to go to the Wine Room?”
If it had alcohol, absolutely.
Lou rose from the arm of the chair and went to the bed to nab her evening bag.
Watching her do that, I realized I’d forgotten mine.
“I have to stop by my room to get my bag,” I told the maid.
“Of course,” she murmured, then her brows drew down and she called, “You don’t have to turn out the lights. While you’re at dinner, we’ll be preparing your rooms for the evening. We’ll take care of the lighting.”
Lou halted in position of dousing a bedside lamp, her head turned to the maid.
“Um…” she mumbled.
Lou had her moral epiphany a few years after she came to understand what it meant in reality how ridiculously wealthy my dad was. Which meant, at first, she’d gone mad, but since then, she’d whittled down her charitable causes to being avidly climate change conscious and an animal rights activist, getting photographed repeatedly while protesting fox hunts and the like. She threw some of her billions of pounds at the same.
Now, I had to stifle a laugh at how in pain she looked to leave a room with the lights on.
“It’ll only mean another day of flooding in Pakistan sometime in the future,” I drawled.
“Not funny,” Lou said, walking away from the lamp.
“I wasn’t meaning to be.”
When I glanced at the maid as we moved out of the room, her face was blank, and I knew the staff would not be coming in to turn off the lights, then rushing back up to turn them on when we headed to bed, all in an effort to make sure the globe didn’t warm to the point of catastrophe in a few decades. But instead, they probably did turn down service, so although the lighting we’d return to would be subdued, at Duncroft House, they didn’t care about flooding in Pakistan in the slightest.
We walked to my room, and I realized my mistake as we neared the door.
“I’ll be out in a jiffy,” I said while sliding through the door without fully opening it, nearly closing it behind me, then racing on my four-inch heels to the bed to grab my bag, teetering once on the brink of a sprained ankle, catching myself in the nick of time, and racing back out.
“I’m not going to throw a fit because you left your lights on,” Lou assured me huffily.
I was relieved that was why she thought I wouldn’t let her see inside.
The maid started walking.
We followed, and as we did, I pulled my phone out of my bag. I noted we had five minutes to get to cocktails, and even though we were a good walk away, I didn’t think it would take five minutes.
Punctuality obviously was key at Duncroft House.
“Are you allowed to share your name?” I asked the maid’s back.
“Brittany.”
“Nice to meet you, Brittany,” I replied.
She didn’t look back as she said, “You as well.”
I stared at her back thinking this maid was different. Chilly, instead of just formal and professional.
Lou and I exchanged looks, and neither of us spoke again as we followed Brittany to the Wine Room.
Newsflash: sadly, it wasn’t filled with wine.
It was the color of wine: all burgundies and currants, with mahogany furniture. The walls looked papered in wine-colored leather (and I hoped they were not). The furniture was definitely leather, with some dark tapestry. And there was an interesting picture of a medieval couple on the wall.
Honestly, I didn’t get to take much in before Daniel Alcott was upon me.
“The big sister!” he cried, moving my way, dragging my sister with him.
She was in ivory again, a full pleated skirt that reached her ankles and a pleated top, the halter neck a ruff of chiffon, her shoulders and arms bare.
And she definitely had help with her makeup and hair. She was good with both, but her elaborate updo was not something a layperson could do, no way, and her face looked like a TikTok influencer had been at it.
Daniel let Portia go in order to take hold of both my biceps and touch his cheeks to both of mine.
He smelled cloyingly of cologne that stated a little too boldly, I’m a man!