The house they were both staying in.
“And half of Devon,” his friend added.
Max rubbed his face with both hands, shoving his fingers through his wet hair.
“And a large swath of London.”
Christ, he was an ass.
“You didn’t think she might like to know that you’re one of the richest men in Britain?”
That got Max’s attention. Simon and he never talked about the dukedom. They talked about the pub and the sheep and the land, about Lottie’s art and Simon’s mother’s ailments. But they never talked about Max’s money.
Simon gave him a half-smile. “You think I grew up in the back room of this pub, in the shadow of Salterton Abbey, and didn’t know that my best friend was rich as royalty? Richer than royalty?”
“Christ, Si.” Max dipped his head, loathing the conversation. “Come on.”
“I didn’t invent Google. Take it up with your fellow billionaires. Look. You are a good friend, and a great partner in a brawl, and I’m fairly certain you bailed out this place when my father ran it into the ground.” It was true, but Max had promised Simon’s father that he’d never admit it, and he wouldn’t. “The rest doesn’t matter. Just as I’m guessing it wouldn’t have mattered to her.”
“It wouldn’t have changed anything,” he said. “She’d still be gone. She would always have left. Nothing I could say would change that—telling her the truth would only have hastened the inevitable.”
There was a long pause, like an eternity.
“It wouldn’t have changed anything,” Max said, filling it. “She’d still be gone.”
Simon watched him for a stretch, and then said, “You look like you’ve been rolled down the hill and into my pub. How long has she been gone?”
Max shook his head. “I don’t know.” He’d left her after she’d fallen asleep on the other side of the bed, out of his arms for the first time since the first night. Gone back to his apartments. Woken at dawn without her and returned to the cottage, ready to explain everything, even if it meant losing out on those last few precious days—and nights—at her side. But it had been too late. She’d left.
As he’d always known she would.
“A few hours.”
He filled Simon in, telling him the story of their arrangement, designed only to last until Lilah went back to London and returned to her life, filled with celebrities and superstars and leaving no room for Max, who—even if she knew the truth—would never be able to give her what she wanted.
But that wasn’t all Max told his friend. He told him about Lilah—about her brilliant photographs, and her easy laugh, and the way she’d won him again and again, and made him believe, more and more, that it was possible for him to be Max forever. And her to be Lilah forever. And for them to live in farmhouse idyll forever.
“When she asked me to go with her, I told her I couldn’t,” he said. He’d watched as disappointment and resignation had clouded her gaze, even as she’d promised him she understood, hating it even as he told himself it was for the best. That it was the best way to keep her from a larger, more devastating disappointment.
To keep from disappointing her.
“Wait. What?” Simon didn’t seem to agree. “Why couldn’t you go?”
“Because I’m not what she wants. Not really.”
“Sorry,” said his friend, leaning down on the bar. “I don’t follow. Did she or did she not invite you to London to go to this posh party?”
“She did. But she doesn’t know that I’ve been a part of that world, and I can’t make her happy in it.”
Silence fell, the sound of the rain on the ancient stained glass windows all there was as Simon turned away to fetch the coffee. Only once he’d poured the cup and slid it across the bar to Max, he said, “Would you like to know, Max, what I thought the first time you brought Georgiana to Salterton?” He paused. “What we all thought?”
Max looked to Simon—his oldest friend, who’d always known about his family and his fortune and never once seemed to care. “I don’t suppose I have a choice.”
“Ha, no. We all thought you were doomed to unhappiness.”
The words were a blow. Max’s brow furrowed. “What does that mean?”
“Oh, we threw you a stag and dressed up for church and toasted you heartily and hoped we were wrong, but we could see the truth.” Simon backed up to his favorite place for pontificating, against the far wall of the bar, arms crossed over his massive chest. “You and Georgiana whateverhernamewas—”
“Chesterton,” Max said. “She’s Countess of Hyde, now.”
“Good for her,” Simon retorted. “Point is, the two of you twenty-three and had the brains to prove it. She was put together as they come—more money than any person needs and reading posh accents at school, or whatever.”
“History of Art, actually. And she’s not exactly faffing about in Ibiza, Simon. She’s head of the British Museum.”
“Oh, well, what in hell was she doing with you to begin with, then?”
“That’s my point,” Max said, lifting the cup. “She shouldn’t have been with me. I made her miserable.”
“No, you didn’t,” Simon said. “You made each other miserable. She was born for a world with plummy titles and posh friends and her picture in Tatler every month, and good for her for realizing that and telling you that she wanted that life and not this one when you were sulking around here, dreaming of a girl who could rate in Wellington boots and didn’t mind the stink of your dog.”
Atlas sighed in the corner, used to being maligned by Simon, who was still going.
“The point is, you were both wrong. And Lady Hyde is sorted. Turns out she wasn’t doomed to unhappiness after all.”
She wasn’t. Last he’d heard from her, Georgiana was happy and successful and wildly in love with her husband and children.
It had been a long time since Max had thought about happiness.
No. It wasn’t true.
Lilah made him happy.
He looked up, meeting Simon’s knowing eyes. “I love her.”
“Of course you do,” his friend said. “You were half in love with her the other night when you were in here playing darts and flirting up a storm.”
It had been the best night of his life. Except for all the others with her.
And still, “I don’t want to disappoint her.”
“How do you know you will?”
“I know, because she’s spent the last eighteen months trying to get back to that world. She’s been at the center of it for years—she’s met more aristocrats than I have! And when she talks about losing it . . . ” Max met his friend’s gaze, and was surprised to find sympathy there. “When she talks about losing it, I can tell she’d do anything to get it back. She wants someone who will love it like she does. And I can’t be that. I’ve tried, but I can’t.”
More than that, he couldn’t bear to live through the moment when Lilah realized he wasn’t what she thought, wasn’t what she wanted, wasn’t . . . enough.
“Did you ask her what she wants?”
Max stilled. “No. That wasn’t part of the deal. The deal was nine days, until she left.”
“Oh, well then, if the deal was nine days, then—” Simon’s words were dry as sand. “Max. Are you saying, this girl asked you—idiot farmer—to stand next to her during one of the most important nights of her life, and you think that wasn’t a blatant invitation to a future?”
Max swallowed back frustration at the question. “I’ve said yes to that invitation before. And I’ve made a hash of it.”
“Well, seems like you’re damned if you do and damned if you don’t, mate. But one way, you’ve got the girl.” Simon shook his head. “You know what? You’re right. You do not deserve that woman. From what I can see, she is brilliant, beautiful, a ringer at darts, and legions too good for you.”
It was all true.
“All right,” Simon drawled, as though he was speaking to a small
child. “How about this? Has it occurred to you that you have enough money to travel the world and take the woman you love to a gala at the British Museum, or a party in New York, or a week in the Maldives because that’s what she wants—oh and because she’s a fucking superstar you don’t deserve—you can do that, and be back here with your sheep and your hay and your dog within hours? Has it occurred to you that what felt like all or nothing at twenty-two might be more nuanced at thirty-five?”
Hope flared.
“Has it occurred to you that you could try again?”
He didn’t have to wait here, on the ramparts, terrified she might never return.
They could fight together.
And come home together.
“This isn’t the same, bruv,” Simon said, not a hint of sarcasm in his tone. “You’re not twenty anymore, trying to work out how to become a man and a duke all in one breath. And she’s not twenty, trying to make a go of it in the world and also not disappoint her husband. Lilah Rose is a grown woman who knows what she wants, Max. And—though it flummoxes me more than I can say—I think she’s made it clear that she wants you.”
“You’re an ass,” Max said.
“But a brilliant one,” Simon retorted. “Why don’t you believe her?”
Because no one had ever wanted him for more than that world. From the moment he was born, that had been his value. Access to that world.
Simon seemed to hear the thoughts. He came off the back wall and leaned down, his elbows on the slick mahogany bar. “It might not work out, mate. For any number of reasons, which doesn’t make you a special case, by the way. But doesn’t Lilah at least deserve the chance to throw you over for the right reason, knowing all the facts? Or to choose to try, eyes wide-open?”
And like that, Max saw it.
He’d been so caught up in thinking about what he could bear and what he couldn't, he’d discounted Lilah. Why the hell had he tried to fight this battle alone, when he’d had the strongest, cleverest, most creative and perceptive woman in the world ready and able to help win this war?
Their future was not written.
They could write it. Different. Perfect.
Together.
“And if it doesn’t work out,” Simon concluded, “you’ll come here and drink yourself into a stupor and I’ll charge you double for whinging into your pint about how hard it is to be a duke, poor fucking baby.”
“I have to tell her who I am.”
An idea came, half-formed. Coalescing.
Max felt like one of his marauding ancestors, girding his loins for the battle of his life. “I have to get to her.”
“Right then.” Simon nodded with satisfaction. “Tell her the dart board is always open for her.”
Chapter Eleven
The show was a triumph.
The Great Court of the British Museum was awash in warm light, giving the whole space an autumnal feel that Lilah would never have expected from somewhere known for soaring white walls and a roof designed to reveal firmament and nothing else.
And her photos were perfect.
The decorators had followed her careful instructions, hanging the ten enormous prints around the central staircase of the Court, the curves of the room obscuring them until attendees made a full turn of the space. Each one highlighted the work of one of the sustainable farms she’d visited, capturing the people who had devoted themselves to ensuring their land would survive for generations while prioritizing delicate ecosystems.
Seeing them together, Lilah realized why she loved this project—not only because she’d hoped it would return her to the world from which she’d been summarily booted, but because she recognized herself in these people. Passionate. Proud. Purposeful.
And now, she recognized Max in them.
No.
No thinking about Max. He’d made it clear that he had no interest in extending their arrangement beyond the Weston estate. Beyond the nine days they’d promised each other.
Of course, Lilah hadn’t given him nine days.
She hadn’t been able to, not once she’d realized how much she’d fallen for him in such a short time. Not once she’d realized that he hadn’t fallen for her.
We go to war together, he’d promised her that day on the tower.
And yet here she was, in full armor, ready for battle. Alone.
Her chest tightened at the thought, enough for her to grab a glass of Prosecco from a passing tray and square her shoulders, willing her heartbeat steady as she entered the room.
She wore a sleek black Paul Smith tux with a cigarette pant that she’d had for years—a nod to sustainability, with the added bonus of it being a comfortable old friend—the deep plunge of the satin lapels revealing a long, narrow wedge of skin. Her hair was wild and loose, a dark, smoky eye finishing the look.
The armor looked good. It had to.
It was her against the world.
She instantly recognized a handful of people. Some, she’d met and photographed during her travels: a Peruvian economist who had perfected small-batch cacao farming that honored a protected biosphere; a Danish chef who’d made a name bringing foraged food into haute cuisine; the grape growers from California.
Some, she’d encountered before she’d been ruined: an Academy Award winner with a passion for environmental causes; several CEOs committed to sustainability; a world-renowned Emirati architect specializing in revolutionary green skyscrapers.
The place was a who’s who of activist glitterati.
And Lilah, without her Nikon for protection.
Without anyone for protection.
When was the last time she’d walked into a showing of her work without a battalion of people—people who disappeared the moment she’d been blacklisted? People who lacked loyalty and only attached themselves to her when there was something valuable for her to give them.
She didn’t need them.
And if she kept her head high, perhaps she’d forget that the only person she wanted wasn’t there.
“Lilah!”
She turned to see Aarti Rao coming toward her with a bright smile before pulling her in close for a warm embrace.
“Friend!” Lilah said, unable to contain her relief. “I cannot tell you how happy I am to see your face!” She lowered her voice. “Do people like them?”
Aarti pulled back sharply. “You are kidding. They are magnificent. Look at them all, craning their necks to get a better view. No one cares about the rest of this old stuff tonight, darling.” Lilah laughed as her friend waved a hand in the direction of the galleries beyond. “I’ve told everyone who will listen that they absolutely must come and tell you just how perfect they are.” She added, softly, “We are very proud to benefit from the return of Lilah Rose.”
For the first time that evening, Lilah’s smile was authentic. “I’m so happy you’re happy with them.”
“We’re thrilled. And personally, I am planning on using mine as my business card!”
Lilah looked up to the picture of Aarti in the lab on her family’s farm in Andhra Pradesh, at the center of nearly a thousand saplings at different stages of growth. The biochemist’s arms were crossed, her pride in her achievements clear as day on her lovely, laughing face. “The best day,” Lilah recalled. “I want to come back.”
“Anytime,” her friend said as they began to circle the room. “But I think that after tonight, you’re going to be a bit busy.”
Lilah’s heart pounded at the prediction—everything she’d wanted.
Not everything.
She pushed the thought away. It was not for tonight.
She and Aarti were immediately swallowed by the crowd. Each of the subjects of Lilah’s portraits were in attendance, deep in conversation with stars and businesspeople alike, finding common ground—which was precisely the point of the evening.
Lilah was thrilled.
Aarti’s prediction came true as they circled the space; every few feet, they were waylaid by someone coming to meet L
ilah—celebrities, fellow artists, the editors-in-chief of two magazines, wealthy attendees looking to discuss commissioned work. She took every introduction in stride, slowly falling back into the habit of having these conversations about her art—about what might come next.
For eighteen months she had planned for this night—knowing it would be important, because it would mark her return to the world from which she’d been exiled. And she could not have asked for a better reception. Suddenly, everything felt possible.
Everything but one thing, which she refused to think on.
One thing that she knew, later that night, back at the hotel, would make her ache.
“You’ve caught all of us in these beautiful moments,” Aarti said as another enormous portrait came into view. Gianna Simeti—an elderly Sicilian woman seated high on an enormous pile of aging cheese wheels on the farm her family had owned since she was a young girl—stared down the lens of Lilah’s camera, a lifetime of work in the lines of her face, and a familiar pride in her eyes.
“It’s honesty,” Lilah said. “You’re all in love.”
“That’s true,” Aarti replied, a gleam of something Lilah didn’t quite understand in her eyes. “I particularly like the next one.”
Lilah followed her gaze to the next photo, the outer edge just in view.
Her brows knit together and a wash of uncertainty flooded her. It wasn’t her photo. She shook her head, moving more quickly. “I didn’t—”
She stopped short as the image appeared.
It was her shot.
It was the picture of Max she’d taken at the top of the folly at Salterton Abbey, the estate laid out behind him, white pops of sheep and bales of hay and the fields of barley in the distance, turned gold in the late afternoon sun—the same as the gold in his eyes.
She caught her breath, her chest tightening as she drank in the image of him, a whirlwind of emotions coming with the memory of what he’d said immediately after she’d taken it.
You’re perfect.
She could hear the words in his low, delicious voice, carrying on the wind, whipping around them on the parapet, just before she’d put her camera away and they’d made love.
Naughty Brits: An Anthology Page 10
