by Roxie Noir
“Lovely to meet you,” I say, my American accent in full swing.
“Likewise,” he says.
It’s all very civilized.
Well, until Bridget shows up. I didn’t know she was coming tonight, but I’m sure that Elizabeth and her squadron of impossible, upper-class harpies have some sort of deal worked out whereby they all try to fuck each others’ brothers so they can get titles.
Sorry. I meant I’m sure they’re all looking for love.
Of course she floats over to us, graceful like a ballerina. She’s tall and skinny with long, straight hair, and that total self-certainty and self-importance that I think comes with growing up knowing for a fact you’re better than everyone around you, because they’ve all been hired to serve you.
She’s even got straight, white teeth. We’re in England. That’s the one thing I’m supposed to have over them, but no. They can’t even live up to stereotypes.
And of course, today’s cocktail hour seems to be taking a particularly long time. There’s a slight aura of panic emanating from the kitchen, but it’s not like there’s anything I can do so I don’t worry about it. Bridget and Alistair while away the time by gossiping about the people they know in common, none of whom I know, and I spend the time feeling like a third wheel to my own fiancé.
“Oh, you didn’t hear?” she’s saying, her eyes positively glittering, taking another sip of her champagne cocktail. “Margaret broke off that engagement when he discovered that Phillip—”
Bridget stops and looks at me. She’s sort of smirking, imperious and annoying.
“I ought to tell you secretly,” she says, blinking up at Alistair, putting one hand on his arm. “He would simply murder me if it got out somehow.”
Then she smiles at me, though it doesn’t reach her eyes.
“You don’t mind, do you?” she asks, clutching Alistair’s arm a little harder.
Fuck yeah I mind. Telling secrets in public is just rude, particularly when you’re doing it while practically dry-humping someone else’s fiancé. But if I’ve learned one single thing in the last few weeks, it’s that I just want to get out of here with a minimum of damage, and if that means some dumb British girl whispers about her frenemy in Alistair’s ear, fine.
“Not at all,” I say, taking a swig of my own cocktail.
She pulls Alistair toward her, glances at me, then puts her hand over his ear and whispers into it.
And whispers.
And whispers.
This must be the War and Peace of secrets. After a while she finally comes up for air, giggling and smiling at Alistair.
“I don’t believe you,” he says. “That’s monstrous.”
“Oh, it gets better,” Bridget giggles, then bats her eyelashes at me. “Sorry, one more moment.”
More whispering. Now I’m getting really annoyed, because I’m just standing here, staring around, drinking my drink while these two carry on like school girls.
At some point, mid-giggle, it occurs to me that I’m probably supposed to be jealous. Bridget probably wants me to be jealous, or something.
It’s kind of an interesting proposition, because I’m... not. I’m annoyed that I look like a moron just standing here, and I’m irritated that they’re being rude as fuck, but Bridget is obviously hitting on Alistair right here, in front of me, and that doesn’t really bother me.
It probably should, but I can’t quite bring myself to get to that particular emotion.
The whispering stops again.
“I swear it’s true,” Bridget says from behind one hand. “On my grandmother’s grave.”
“Would you like to share with the class?” I say acidly, getting pretty fucking tired of this.
Bridget just blinks at me, her eyes wide.
“The class?” she asks, puzzled.
“It’s an expression Americans use sometimes,” Alistair explains to her. “In a classroom, when two students in the back are talking to each other and not paying attention.”
“Oh! How charming,” she exclaims. “I did miss out on all sort of things like that, mum and dad always got me private tutors so I’m afraid it went right over my head. Share with the class. It’s precious.”
Yup, I hate her.
“Glad I could charm you,” I say. “Would you like to tell me what’s so monstrous, or...”
“I’ll tell you later, darling,” Alistair says.
I give him a look. An I’m fucking tired of this already look, a we were having such a nice day, and this is how you’re spending my goodwill, seriously? look.
“You could tell me now.”
“You don’t even know Margaret and Phillip, I promise you it’ll take ages just to explain why it’s so funny. Just trust me, won’t you?”
He takes a sip of his champagne and smiles down at Bridget, like they’re both laughing at the secret that they both share. Which they are.
In that tiny, singular moment, the good feeling I had crumbles a little. Obviously, to him, his apologies were just words. He was just saying whatever he thought I wanted to hear, and he was right.
But now, finally, I’m realizing something. Alistair doesn’t actually think his behavior needs to change.
He might never think that, because the minute a chance comes along, he’s treating me like a child again and flirting with this other girl right here, in front of me, like I’m nothing.
That bothers me. It bothers me that I should be jealous and I’m not. It bothers me that he’s not interested in wasting Bridget’s time explaining a joke after wasting plenty of mine.
Just then, Lord Winstead clinks a spoon against a wine glass, commanding everyone’s attention and cutting my dissatisfied train of thought in half.
“Dinner is finally served,” he announces.
Alistair and Bridget giggle and whisper throughout the whole of dinner. It’s rude. It’s annoying.
I’m seated across the table from Elizabeth, and every single time I make eye contact with her, she smirks. Lady Catherine won’t even look at me, and I’m starting to get the strong feeling that the only person who minds at all is me.
At least then I’ve got the Colonel and his very active mustache seated on my other side, so I get to hear likely-invented-or-stolen stories of great military prowess, punctuated by wiggling facial hair. It doesn’t make me less annoyed, but at least it’s entertaining.
Alistair says four words me to during dinner, then three during dessert. I’m starting to get the feeling that his treatment of me is somehow payback, that he’s trying to teach me a lesson or something after I dared to have a problem with his behavior.
It’s a feeling I’ve gotten a few times lately, that he doesn’t like being questioned or critiqued. To be fair, he never has, but since we’ve been here that aspect of his personality has ramped up considerably, to the point where it’s making me uncomfortable.
After dinner he rises from his chair, pulls mine out, puts a hand on my shoulder.
Ask me to go for a stroll, I think.
Something. Anything.
“Darling, I’ve been invited to play cribbage in the drawing room with Elizabeth and a few of her friends,” he says.
My eyes flick over his shoulder. Elizabeth smirks, and Bridget bats her eyes at me. I have no idea how to play cribbage, and I’ve got the feeling that they’re not about to offer to teach me.
“You’ll be all right by yourself, won’t you?”
I think of a thousand things I could say right now, none of which are very polite, because I’m not annoyed that he’s going to go play cards with stupid Bridget, I’m annoyed that he wants to play cards with her and that he apparently can’t be bothered even teaching me.
“Of course,” I say, smiling at him.
He gives me a quick kiss on the cheek, and before he’s even out of the room, Bridget is holding onto his arm, looking up at him, laughing, and I roll my eyes at them behind their backs before I head up to my suite by myself.
I’m not jeal
ous. I’m not even upset, not exactly, but I think I should be. The thought of Bridget and Alistair laughing and touching and flirting should probably incite some sort of emotion in me, but I’m mostly just tired of it.
In my suite, I pull on jeans and a t-shirt, then my biggest, comfiest sweatshirt, grab Northanger Abbey, and flop down into an armchair to read.
I re-read the same page over and over, because I’m certain it wasn’t always like this. I used to be mad for Alistair, I used to think he hung the moon himself. He used to call me every day at lunch just because he said he wanted to talk to me, and we used to watch movies together on his couch but talk over them the whole time.
And I know that that sort of thing doesn’t last forever, that the honeymoon phase ends, but I keep thinking over everything that’s happened while we’re here, the way Alistair’s been acting toward me. How it fits in with his overall behavior more than I’d like it to, as if coming here and treating me like a cross between trophy housewife and child is the rule, rather than the exception.
He can be so, so charming sometimes. And I know that I can be irrational, overly emotional, especially where he’s concerned, and God knows he never hesitates to point it out.
An hour ticks by, then two. Outside my door I can hear the household quiet down, and now that I’ve read several pages of this book, I’m starting to wonder whether he’s still playing cribbage with Elizabeth and Bridget or whether he’s gone to bed.
It’s late, but not that late.
Pub’s open.
I shouldn’t. I shouldn’t even see Liam after I acted like an idiot during the gala, but it’s not like we’ll be alone or something. We’ll be in a pub full of grumpy old men, I can apologize, have a beer, leave as friends again.
It’s got nothing to do with the thought of his face inches from mine, our knees barely touching. It’s not because there’s a bad, wicked, rotten part of me deep, deep down that secretly thinks that maybe I could have this one small thing and Alistair would never need to find out.
And it’s definitely not because Liam’s got this pull on me that’s so powerful it feels tidal, gravitational, bigger than either of us. Hell, that’s a very good reason not to go.
But I put on shoes. I grab my coat, a scarf, a hat, leave my suite door quietly. From far away there’s a shriek of female laughter and I click the door shut behind me, a little more certain now.
At least I’m being secret about it, I think.
I head silently along the plush carpet in the hallway, down the servants’ stairs, through the less-fancy part of the manor until I’m at the plain side door, the knob cold in my hand, feeling like I should know better.
I turn it, the cold slipping through the opening as I hear footsteps stop behind me.
“Where are you off to?” Alistair’s voice says.
Chapter Twelve
Liam
When the door opens, the bells jingle, and Little Lord Viscount walks into the pub, everyone in the place is surprised. Giles and Malcolm briefly pause their argument over the stupid church bell. The regulars at the bar pause, mid-drink. There’s a quick hush that falls over the pub.
It’s simply not Winstead behavior. The pub in town is for the smallfolk, the people who work all day and need a respite afterward, not the lords of the manor. That’s who we need the respite from.
Moments later, he’s followed by Frankie, who looks straight ahead, not making eye contact with anyone.
I’ve not seen her in days. I was certain that she wasn’t coming back, that she told Alistair all about what nearly happened in the sound closet at the gala. That’s why I’ve already drained the bottle of Jameson I got that night and then bought another, though I’ve managed not to break another glass and slice myself up any worse.
I’ve already got gauze taped around my hand and a larger bandage around my forearm, though it’s healing nicely.
My mouth goes dry and my cock goes hard. Despite her fiancé standing right there, looking as if he finds the place rather below his standards, I’m staring. Stock-still. I might be literally drooling, I can’t even tell.
“Isn’t this charming,” the Little Lord finally says.
The regulars all stir, look at each other, shrug.
“We like it,” Giles finally offers.
“Terribly rustic,” Alistair goes on. “Really feel like the salt of the earth when you come in here.”
No one points out that it’s largely because they are. Alistair walks forward, still looking around, and Frankie follows him.
I watch her move. I feel like I’m seeing her again for the first time, and I was fucking unprepared for tonight, that’s for damn sure. I wipe my hands on the bar towel, pray I don’t look like some sort of simpering idiot right now, and step forward.
“Drink?”
Alistair finally looks at me. Frankie walks up next to him, and he puts an arm around her. I can see his fingers digging into her flesh, and just from her face, it’s obvious that she doesn’t want to be here.
“Get a new job, did you?” he asks, walking up to the bar, practically dragging Frankie along with him. The regulars are simply watching at this point, some of them swiveling on their bar stools for a better view.
“Got two jobs,” I lie. “Times are tough, you know. Got to scrape together a living. Least some of us.”
Frankie turns bright red at that statement, but Alistair seems to ignore it.
“Must be rough, waking up early to work the flower shop and then stay up late to tend bar,” he says. “You must be exhausted, mate.”
In the back, Malcolm mutters something to Giles. Giles shrugs. Arthur’s giving me a quizzical look.
“It’s a living,” I say. “Did you want a drink or just to enquire after my well-being?”
“What cocktails have you got?” Frankie suddenly asks, the first time she’s spoken up.
“The usual, I imagine,” I tell her, giving her a long, hard look, because as much as I’m rather enjoying her presence, I also wish she hadn’t brought him here.
Really, I’d much rather pretend the Little Lord simply didn’t exist. Quite difficult with his ugly mug grinning at me across the bar.
“I’ll take an Old Fashioned.”
“You’ll have to tell me how to make it.”
Alistair snorts.
“You’re a barman who can’t make an Old Fashioned?”
“I pour pints and shots and make sure anyone who gets too drunk is shown the door,” I say. “Apologies that this isn’t the Polo Lounge.”
“That it’s certainly not,” Alistair says casually. The muttering behind him grows, because it’s rather the point that this place isn’t some posh dinner club. “I’ll take a pint of bitter and she’ll take a half-pint of cider.”
Frankie looks at him. Every line of her face is etched with unhappiness, the two of them just radiating that something is going on between them, that they’re here as part of some fight.
I’m well aware that I’m part of that fight, and even though Frankie looks miserable and that I hate that, I don’t hate that I’ve gotten Alistair angry. I know for a fact that I’ll never get Frankie, so I may as well make Alistair miserable.
“Actually, I’ll get a pint of stout, thanks,” Frankie says, her voice brittle.
I turn away to pour the beers, relieved that I don’t have to face them for a few moments, trying not to smirk.
“Are you sure?” Alistair asks her.
“Yup.”
“I thought you liked cider,” he says.
Frankie doesn’t answer. There’s stony silence as I finish pouring the drinks. When I turn back around Alistair’s smiling at me but it’s not a smile. It’s a threat, and I know from other blokes threatening me to my face.
Frankie, on the other hand, is perfectly stone-faced. She won’t even look at me.
“Six pounds forty,” I say.
“Put it on my tab,” Alistair tells me, picking up his drink.
“You haven’t got o
ne.”
“I’ll open one, then.”
I try not to smile, because I know I’m being fucking stupid and petty, but it feels good.
“Got to be a regular to open a tab,” I say. “Sorry, but I’ve never seen you in here before, mate.”
A scowl crosses his face briefly, then he settles back into a smile.
“Come on, you know who I am.”
“Doesn’t make you a regular.”
“I’ll open it in her name, then,” he says, nodding at Frankie. “She’s been here quite a lot, I understand.”
A hush falls over the bar, and I can feel a dozen pairs of flinty British eyes watching me. None of them know the story, they only know that Frankie’s here quite a lot and now suddenly she’s shown up with a bloke who’s being a total fucking prick to me.
I don’t think the maths are very complicated, but I just shrug.
“Not a regular either,” I say. “Listen, mate, if you haven’t got six pounds I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to—”
Alistair laughs, cutting me off, and reaches into his pocket. He pulls out an expensive leather wallet and tosses a ten-pound note on the bar.
“Keep the change, mate,” he says, shoving his wallet back into his trouser pocket, grabbing his drink, and turning away. “Come on, Françoise.”
With his back to us for a moment, Frankie gives me a look I can’t quite decode. It’s definitely something but I don’t know what, exactly. I just know that it makes my heart thump oddly in my chest.
“Cheers,” she mutters, before following Alistair, the way her ass moves under her dress fucking mesmerizing, my own trousers instantly feeling quite a bit tighter. They head to a booth in the corner of the main room, where we can see each other but I can’t hear them or them me.
Arthur, one of the men who’s always here nursing his pint, just looks at me, shakes his head, and sighs.
“Sod off,” I mutter. He takes another drink.
Chapter Thirteen
Frankie
I should have stayed in the limousine outside or something. Hell, I should have jumped out of the moving vehicle. By now I’d either be back at the manor house or eaten by whatever large predator northern England has rather than here with Alistair.
