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)
The seating area was bigger, as was the fireplace. It had an actual closet, a walk-in one that was enormous, thank you very much, and if the bathroom in Carnation was a dream, the one in Rose was sheer heaven.
And the ridiculously beautiful wallpaper didn’t suck.
I loved it there. I felt right there.
At home there.
It was weird, but even though my lunch with Lady Jane was curious (I decided to consider it that rather than creepy), I was still hell bent on making the best of the rest of this visit.
A mammoth task, but I was psyching myself up for it.
I was on my way to the door when there was a knock. Probably Lou needed a zip up too.
I opened it, and Ian was standing there.
“You’re decent,” he murmured, his eyes on my dress. “Pity.”
I opened the door further. “Stop it and get in here. I need a zip up.”
“At your service,” he said, coming in and closing the door behind him. I turned my back to him, and as he did me up, he remarked, “I’m used to this going the other direction.”
“I already know you’re a scoundrel, no need to beat the horse dead,” I said as he finished, and I turned around to face him.
“A scoundrel?” he teased.
I walked to a beautifully upholstered, rose velvet chair and sat. “A scoundrel. Are you here to tell me Portia and Daniel have returned?”
“Alas no,” he replied. “Allow me,” he then said, coming to stand in front of me and holding out his hand for the gold, stiletto sandal I’d picked up to put on.
Mutely, I handed it to him, feeling a frisson of sexuality in the gesture.
“Give it here,” he muttered, snapping his fingers toward my feet, his eyes aimed that way.
Marvelous.
He was going to give me an orgasm by being bossy and putting on my shoes.
I lifted my foot.
He cupped the heel in his big, warm hand.
Yes. Careening close to orgasm.
“I’m here because father informed me, we have guests for dinner,” he shared.
“Yes?”
He was a dab hand with the slender straps and buckle, because he managed it in a trice.
“Yes. The Dewhursts. Michael and Mary, and their daughter, Chelsea.”
“Okay,” I said after he bent to retrieve the second shoe and I offered him my other foot.
“They’re good friends of my father, at least Michael is.”
“All right.”
His gaze lifted to mine. “Several years ago, I saw Chelsea for a few months.”
And the murkiness clears.
“Ah.”
“And after we finished, Daniel saw her for a few months more. At this juncture in delivering my message, I feel it’s important to note it was Dad who extended the invitation to them.”
And the vision came into stark relief.
But I could not believe what I was hearing.
I tried to be diplomatic. “Your father’s kind of not a very cool guy.”
“He’s an asshole,” he muttered to my shoe.
He finished with it and let me go, which was a shame.
“I had lunch with your mum,” I told him.
He pushed his hands in his trouser pockets, which brought something else into stark relief: the utterly delectable dark-gray suit he was wearing, again with a vest and a beautiful shirt, this one snowy white, and no tie, collar open at his throat.
He gifted me with the attention of those beautiful blue eyes again. “I heard.”
“She told me about solar panels and windmills and kitchenettes.”
He appeared openly surprised at that, but replied, “I see.”
“And indicated your father was not at one with all your plans.”
He jutted out his strong, cleanshaven chin. “No. He wasn’t. He told me the house was fine as it is and shared we have plenty of money, so the fact we’d shave what would amount to at least ten thousand pounds a year off our heating and electrical bills installing the solar panels alone was unnecessary.”
I knew it was a bitch to heat this place.
“Short-sighted too,” I noted.
“Yes, I mentioned that and how the slowness of our great country in modernizing and thinking forward is rapidly shrinking our once vast empire. He didn’t take my point. He told me if I wanted the changes, I’d have to pay for them myself.”
Interesting.
“Did you?”
“Fuck no,” he replied. “It cost a fortune and it’s not for me, it’s for Duncroft. Duncroft should pay for it.”
I couldn’t argue.
“Dad flatly refused,” he continued. “I went over his head to the trustees. They’re in the business of being forward-thinking, so they approved the expenditures. But along with the living expenses as Mum, Dad and Danny like to live, it was noted those new outlays might well dip into the principal. This meant they advised us other cuts needed to be made.”
“I’m sure that didn’t go over very well.”
“No, considering two of the expenditures the trustees pointed out would be easy to let go without most who lived in and served Duncroft suffering were Dad’s apartments in London and York.”