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)
For another, he’d exposed us to an entirely different staff of Duncroft. Those who smiled, joked, called Ian by his first name, and were wholly comfortable around him as they went about their business.
Bonnie, the rounded, very pretty, middle-aged, classically trained chef (who Richard had called a “cook”) even sat with us and ate dessert while she bombarded me with questions about my business and pastry-making secrets. All this while I inwardly squirmed because Ian watched as it happened, and he did this with great intensity.
We then moved back to the Conservatory (definitely Ian’s favored space, and I didn’t think it was only because that was where he could smoke). There, we had after-dinner drinks and I watched while Ian beat Louella in a game of backgammon.
I refused to play the winner and not only because I didn’t know how to play backgammon.
No, it was because I didn’t need any more of Ian Alcott’s attention on me that night.
Now, I was in bed, wondering at my sanity for buying a book about a dead woman who had slept where I was sleeping, and also wondering if I wanted the full story, as told by Dorothy Clifton’s great-nephew.
I wanted the full story.
I just wanted Ian to tell me.
Man, I was in trouble.
A soft knock sounded at the door.
“Yes?” I called.
Louella poked her head around the door.
Shit!
I hadn’t come up with a plausible explanation why we were going to move her tomorrow, or a plausible reason why she was in the shittiest room in the house.
And now, that hour was upon me, and I was unprepared.
“Can I come in?” she asked.
“Sure,” I said.
She looked around after she slid into the room and closed the door behind her.
“Uh…” I mumbled uncomfortably.
“I’ve stuck my head into a couple of rooms,” she said, moving to the other side of my bed, then stretching out on her side next to me, up on an elbow. “I also know people like this have a nasty way of communicating things. They did it to your dad all the time.”
That was news.
“Really?”
She nodded. “He wanted to be a Lord Richard Alcott. He thought money could buy that for him. He was wrong, and when he courted their favor, they liked to make sure he knew his place.”
I didn’t know that about Dad.
Still.
“Ugh.”
“Yes,” she agreed. Then she hit me with it. “What’s going on with you and Ian?”
“Nothing,” I said, too quickly.
“He liked his dinner. He’d have preferred to be eating you.”
I batted her with my Kindle. “Lou!”
“Am I wrong?”
“He’s flirty. It’s not like he isn’t known for his killer charm.”
“Mm,” she hummed.
“He’s an ally in this mess.”
She tipped her head to the side. “Is this a mess?”
“Um, wasn’t it you last night at around this time telling me we had to get out of here?”
“No, yes. I mean, this is a mess. This house. Daniel. Portia. Richard. Jane. Ian, though, perhaps not so much.”
“I thought you thought he was unbearable.”
“I changed my mind. Sue me.”
I didn’t need this.
“Daniel’s with Portia for her money,” I blurted.
“Yes.”
I blinked. “You know?”
“Portia is…”
She didn’t finish.
“Not such a catch, if she didn’t have billions of dollars,” I filled in for her.
Lou avoided my eyes. “She’s pretty. She can be sweet. She’s smarter than she gives herself credit for. But she’s difficult.”
“She dated Ian before Daniel,” I told her.
Her gaze shot to mine. “What?”
“A couple of dates. No intimacy. Ian let Daniel think he stole her from him. It’s a game he plays. Throwing Daniel a bone.”
“Portia isn’t a bone,” she snipped.
“I agree. That said, he was very forthcoming about Daniel’s intentions. I don’t think he wants Portia hurt.”
“None of us do.”
“I need to sit her down to talk.”
“You do.”
“I saw Daniel last night, out in the fog, at three in the morning.”
Her chin went into her neck. “Sorry?”
“Yes.”
“What was he doing out there so early in the morning?”
“Your guess is as good as mine. He wasn’t here when I was able to question him.”
“That’s weird.”
“It’s all weird, Lou.”
She fell to her back. “I’m upset Portia dated Ian.”
I was too.
“Why?” I asked her, because the reason she was couldn’t be the same as mine.
“Because now it’s icky that you’ll be dating him.”
“I won’t be dating him.”
She turned her head my way. “He’s into you.”
“He’ll get over it.”
“You’re into him.”
“I’ll get over it too.”
“Not everyone is François,” she said softly.
“Yes, they are, honey. Every man is François. All ego, all pride, all cock.”
And if you haven’t learned that yet, God help you, I did not say.
“You’re too young not to reach for happiness, lovey,” she said.
And what was your happiness? My father’s utter devotion that came only when you blatantly showed him yours when he was dying? And then he was dead? Is that what I get? Proving myself time and again, earning their love, but giving it as it’s supposed to be given, freely, without expecting anything in return…except to be honored with the same, but never having a chance at that unless forced by happenstance into some heroic display of undying devotion?