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)
I then went back to bed to enjoy breakfast in it.
But I did this with the steely determination to speak to Lord Alcott when I joined him for the tour in order to explain as politely as possible (even if he had not extended much of the same to me) my clothes and belongings were mine to deal with, I would prefer privacy in my room, and if that was too much to ask, I’d be leaving it and Duncroft, taking my sister and Lou with me.
And last, but most importantly, I would demand to talk, alone, with my goddamned sister.
I went to Lou’s room first, before I headed down to the Conservatory.
I knocked. She didn’t answer.
I knocked again, no answer.
I didn’t want to stick my head in, in case she was showering or had her earbuds in. I didn’t want to give her a fright.
Truth, since I was purposefully running late (control freak Richard could wait five minutes for me, yes, that was snotty, but I’d had broken sleep and I was in a mood), and Lou was being very careful to make Portia look good, she’d probably already headed down.
Though, it would be strange she did that without knocking on my door first.
Nevertheless, I turned toward the staircase, walking down the flight of stairs on the inside (not close to the railing), entirely because I’d read about Dorothy Clifton a couple hours before and I wanted nothing to do with that railing. At least, not that morning.
I made it to the bottom of the stairs, rounded the newel post and statue while studiously avoiding looking at it, and headed to the back of the house.
To the Conservatory.
The doors to it were wide open and just plain wide, and tall, rising up ten, maybe twelve feet, and stretching across at least the same measure. There were curlicues of leaded fancies adorning the glass doors that swung inside the room. They were like iron summonses, guiding you inside, and the close, humid feel of a greenhouse could be felt several feet before I even arrived at the entryway.
It was nearly oppressive inside, plants hanging everywhere, some of them huge, with leaves and vines dangling twenty, thirty feet. They were so far up, I had no idea how they watered them. But they managed it: they were all almost grotesquely healthy.
I didn’t spend too much time thinking about it, because no one was there to greet me.
I walked farther in.
The floor was a sea of stunning mosaic tile with inlaid paths twining through more plants, these potted and sitting on the ground, in planter stands or on ornate columns. The paths separated and reunited, until I hit the back of the Conservatory.
It was only here I could see the angled sweep of the expansive glass panes that started at least two stories up, led to the house and connected to it.
Also here was a cozy arrangement of comfortable-looking green velvet chairs and sofas intermingled with carved, glossy wood side tables. There were also Tiffany glass lamps, several of them.
Further, there were piles of books, as if this was someone’s secret getaway where they lounged and read, away from the dysfunction of the occupants of the house. And there was a fully stocked drinks cabinet off to the side, hidden among a bunch of plants. It was beautiful, and I spied a small, expertly hidden refrigerator, which no doubt held chilled beverages so whoever hung out here wouldn’t have to go too far, or be disturbed by anyone, if they wanted a cool drink.
Definitely a secret getaway for someone, and that someone appeared to be Ian Alcott, for he sat alone on one of the sofas, a book held open in his hand, a gold-filtered cigarette burning between two fingers of his upraised other one, his head turned and tipped back, his attention on me.
If he wasn’t wearing jeans and a thick fisherman’s sweater, I would have pegged him from another era, specifically considering that foul cigarette.
So my guided tour wasn’t going to be conducted by stuffy, arrogant, pompous Lord Alcott.
It was going to be conducted by handsome, arrogant, vain Lord Alcott.
Not the Earl.
The Viscount.
He crushed the cigarette out in a heavy, cut-glass ashtray on the low coffee table in front of him, placed a leather bookmark in the book and tossed it on the table.
He then looked at his watch.
“Seven minutes late. Congratulations,” he drawled.
“You shouldn’t smoke,” I announced.
“Ah, she worries about my health. How charming,” he murmured, pushing up from the couch.
I ignored that and my reaction to his imposing height and the visual of him in all his glory, and I scanned the space.
When I saw we were alone, I asked, “Where’s Lou?”
He looked genuinely perplexed when he said, “Sam took her into the village. She said she forgot some medication. She called her doctor. He phoned the prescription to the pharmacy there and they’re off to pick it up.”