by James, E L
Could this be any more illicit? She’s so close but so unattainable. She moves to plump the black scatter cushions on the couch, and her housecoat swings forward and stretches out across her backside, betraying the pink underwear beneath.
My breathing shallows, and I have to suppress a groan.
I’m a fucking pervert.
She finishes with the sofa, and her eyes stray toward me. I endeavor to look engrossed in the spreadsheet in my hand while the hairs on the back of my neck rise to attention. Taking the can of polish, she sprays some onto the cloth she’s holding and heads to the piano. With another quick, anxious glance at me, she begins the slow process of buffing it to a brilliant shine. She stretches across it, the housecoat rising to above the backs of her knees.
Oh, God!
With a deliberate and even pace, she works her way around the piano, buffing and polishing, her breathing becoming faster and harder with the exertion. It’s agonizing. I close my eyes and imagine how I could elicit the same response from her.
Shit. I cross my legs to hide my body’s natural reaction. This is getting farcical. She’s just cleaning my fucking piano.
She continues to dust the keyboard, though the keys make no sound. Her eyes shoot to me again, and I quickly look at the figures on the spreadsheet, which swim on the page, making no sense. When I dare to peer up at her, she’s bending down, her face pensive, and she seems to be appraising the manuscript that sits on the music rest. She’s looking at my composition, and her brow creases as if she’s concentrating hard.
Can she read music?
Is she reading my score?
She looks up and meets my gaze. Her eyes widen with embarrassment, and her tongue escapes from her mouth to lick her upper lip as a rosy flush stains her cheeks.
Fuck.
Averting her eyes, she bobs down behind the piano, presumably to dust the legs or the stool.
I cannot bear it.
My phone rings, startling me. It’s Oliver.
“Hi,” I say into the phone, my voice hoarse, and I’ve never been so grateful for the interruption. I have to get out of the drawing room.
Hell, I promised myself that I wouldn’t let her chase me out again.
“Trevethick?”
“Yes. Oliver. What is it?”
“We have a planning issue which I think is going to need your attention.”
I stalk into the hallway as Oliver drones on about soffits and load-bearing walls within the Mayfair development.
* * *
When he leaves the room, it’s as if a storm has passed overhead to wreak havoc elsewhere—in the hallway, perhaps. Alessia breathes a sigh of relief, grateful that he’s gone. She hears him on the phone, his voice deep but melodious. She doesn’t think she’s ever been so acutely aware of someone else before.
She must stop thinking about him and concentrate on cleaning! She finishes dusting the piano, though she can’t shake the uncanny feeling that he’d been watching her while she cleaned.
No. That’s impossible.
Why would he be watching me?
Maybe he’s checking on her cleaning capabilities like Mrs. Kingsbury. Alessia smiles at the silly idea and realizes she feels a great deal warmer than she did when she arrived. She isn’t sure if the heat is within the room or within herself.
Warmed by his presence.
Her ludicrous train of thought elicits another smile. As he’s out of the room, she seizes the opportunity to run and fetch the vacuum cleaner. The Mister is at the end of the hall leaning against the wall, all long legs and restless foot-tapping. He is talking into the phone in a low tone, but he watches her as she goes into the kitchen. She carries the vacuum cleaner into the living room to find him back at his desk but still talking on the phone. He rises when he sees her. “Hold on a minute, Oliver. Go ahead,” he says to her, and he waves in the direction of the room, granting Alessia permission to vacuum as he leaves once more. He’s undone the black hoodie he’s wearing. Underneath she sees a gray V-neck T-shirt that has a black winged coronet and LA 1781 written on it. She flushes as she notices a little chest hair peeking through the top of the V. In her mind she hears her mother’s voice scolding her in that tone she has: Alessia! What are you doing?
I am looking at a man, Mama.
A man I find attractive.
A man who makes my blood run hotter.
She imagines her mother’s scandalized expression, and it makes her smile.
Oh, Mama, it’s so different here in England. Men. Women. How they behave. Their interaction.
Alessia’s mind goes to a darker place. To him.
No. Do not think of that man.
She’s safe now, here in London with the Mister. And she must concentrate on keeping her job.
The vacuum cleaner is a make called Henry. Painted on his red cylinder are two big eyes and a smile. Whenever she sees Henry, she can’t help but smile. She plugs him into the wall and begins to vacuum the rug and the wooden floor. Fifteen minutes later she’s finished.
The Mister is not in the hallway as she pulls Henry back to his sleeping place in the laundry room cupboard. Alessia gives him a friendly pat before shutting the cupboard door and heading into the kitchen.
“Hi,” the Mister says as he comes into the kitchen. “I have to go out. Your money is on the console table. You can lock up and set the alarm?”
She nods, so blinded by his broad smile that she has to stare down at the floor. But inside her, joy unfurls like a morning glory because he’s leaving and she’ll be able to play the piano.
He hesitates for a moment before holding out a large black umbrella.
“You’re welcome to borrow this. It’s still raining cats and dogs outside.”
Cats and dogs?
Alessia is stunned. She glances quickly at his face, and her heart skips a beat at his warm smile and this generous gesture. She takes it from him. “Thank you,” she whispers.
“You’re welcome. Until Wednesday, Alessia,” he says, and he leaves her alone in the kitchen. A few moments later, she hears the front door close.
Alessia stares at the umbrella. It’s old-fashioned, with a wooden handle and a gold collar. It is exactly what she needs. Marveling at the Mister’s generosity, she wanders into the living room and sits down at the piano. She props the umbrella up against the end of the keyboard and in honor of the terrible weather begins to play Chopin’s “Raindrop” Prelude.
* * *
I bask and glow in the wake of Alessia’s whispered “Thank you.” I am ridiculously pleased with myself. I’m finally able to help her with this small gesture. I’m not accustomed to doing good deeds—though I probably have an ulterior motive for my kindness, a motive I don’t want to analyze too deeply right now, as it might confirm I’m the shallow fucking bastard I think I am. Still, I feel good about this gesture, and it’s a novel feeling.
With renewed energy I bypass the lift and fly down the main staircase to the ground floor. I’m reluctant to leave, but I have a meeting with Oliver and various contractors at the Mayfair development. Glancing down at my clothes, I hope they don’t expect me to arrive in a suit. That’s just not my style.
No. That was Kit’s thing, and he had a wardrobe full of bespoke Savile Row suits to prove it.
Outside, I dodge the raindrops and hail a cab.
* * *
“I think that went well,” says Oliver. I nod as we walk through the new limestone atrium of one of the rebuilt mansion blocks. Workmen in high-vis jackets and yellow hard hats go about their business around us as we make our way to the boarded front of the building. The dust in the air claws at my throat. I need a drink.
“You’ve got a flair for this, Trevethick. I think the contractor liked your suggestions.”
“Oliver. It’s Maxim. Please use my name. You used to. B
efore.”
“Very good, my lord.”
“For fuck’s sake.”
“Maxim.” Oliver gives me a brief smile. “We’ll need to get an interior designer to source everything for the show apartment, probably within the next month. I’ve compiled a list of three that Kit liked to use.”
Kit? Kit was Kit. Why can’t I be Maxim?
“Caroline might be a good idea,” I say.
“Oh? Lady Trevethick?”
“My mother suggested her.”
Oliver bristles.
Oh? What does Oliver have against Caroline? Or is he bridling against Rowena? She often has that effect on people.
“I’ll talk to Caroline, but send me the names of the others and some examples of their work,” I respond.
Oliver nods, and I remove my hard hat and hand it to him.
“Until tomorrow,” he says, and pushes open the rickety door of the temporary wooden hoarding that hides the façade of the building.
The rain has finally stopped, but it’s dark. I pull up the collar of my coat and wait for a cab while I decide whether to go to my club or go home.
* * *
Walking around the baby grand piano, I think about Alessia stretched across it while she was buffing the ebony to a glossy shine. It gleams under the chandelier. Who would have thought I’d be so attracted to a woman in a nylon housecoat and large pink panties?
How could she have worked her way under my skin in such a short time? I know nothing about her, except she’s unlike any woman I’ve ever met. The women in my life are bold and confident and know what they want and how to ask for it. She’s not like that. Demure and totally focused on her job, Alessia seems reluctant to engage with me…almost as if she wants to be invisible. She confounds me. Her shy acceptance of the umbrella comes to mind and makes me smile. She was so surprised and appreciative, and I wonder what her life must be like that she’s so grateful for such a simple gesture.
I sit on the piano stool and read through my first manuscript, recalling her face as she pored over the score. Perhaps she reads music. Maybe she even plays. And part of me wants to know what she thinks of my composition. But I realize I’m just speculating. My only certainty right now is the dull ache in my groin.
Fuck it. Go out and get laid.
But instead I stay at the piano, playing each song over and over in turn.
* * *
Alessia lies on the small folding cot that serves as her bed in a tiny room in Magda’s house. Her mind is churning, she has so much to do—but her thoughts return once again to the green-eyed Mister. She sees him at the piano. His eyes closed, his brow furrowed, and his mouth slack as he feels the music—and later his warm expression as he hands her the umbrella. His hair rumpled and his full lips curved in an inviting smile. She wonders what they would be like to kiss.
Her hand moves down her body, over her breast.
He could kiss her here.
She gasps, embracing her fantasy, and her hand moves farther down, and she imagines that it’s his hand on her.
Touching her.
Here.
She starts to caress herself, stifling her moans, mindful of the thin walls of her room.
She thinks of him as her body builds.
Climbing.
Higher.
His face.
His back.
His long legs.
She climbs further.
His taut behind.
His flat stomach.
She groans as she comes, and, exhausted, she falls asleep.
Only to dream of him.
* * *
I toss and turn in my sleep.
She stands in the doorway. A vision in blue.
Come in. Lie with me. I want you.
But she turns, and she’s in my drawing room. Polishing the piano.
She’s wearing nothing but pink panties.
I reach over to touch her, but she disappears.
And I wake.
* * *
Fuck.
I’m hard. Painfully so.
Hell. I need to get out more.
I take quick care of myself.
When was the last time I did this? I need to get laid. Tomorrow. That’s what I’ll do. I turn over and fall into a fitful sleep.
* * *
The following afternoon Oliver is taking me through the accounts for each of the estates. Our offices are just off Berkeley Square in a Georgian house that was converted into offices during the 1980s by my father. The building is owned by the Trevethick estate and houses two other companies on the upper floors.
I’m trying to concentrate on the numbers we’re discussing, but I’m conscious that the door to Kit’s office is ajar. It’s distracting. I cannot bring myself to work in there yet. I can almost hear him talking on the phone or laughing at one of my poor jokes or berating Oliver about some transgression. I half expect him to bound in off the street. He was so at ease in this world and in charge of his domain. He made it look effortless.
But I know he envied my freedom.
It’s okay for you fucking your way through London, Spare. Some of us have to work for a living.
I stand over Kit’s lifeless, fractured body with the A&E doctor.
Yes. This is him, I confirm.
Thank you, Lord Trevethick, she murmurs.
It was the first time anyone had used the title….
“So I think we can leave things as they are for the next quarter and then review,” Oliver says, dragging me back into the present. “Though you should really go and visit the estates.”
“Yes. I should.”
At some point…
I am only vaguely aware of the recent history of the three estates, but I know that through the good stewardship of my grandfather, my father, and my brother all of them are profitable. Unlike many of our peers, the Trevelyans are not struggling for money.
Angwin House, set in the Cotswolds in Oxfordshire, is thriving. Open to the public, it has a vast garden center, a children’s jungle gym and petting zoo, a tearoom, and open pastures for the general public to enjoy. Tyok in Northumberland is rented out lock, stock, and barrel to a rich American who fancies himself a lord. Kit and Oliver often speculated as to why he hadn’t bought his own stately home, and now I’m wondering the same. Tresyllian Hall in Cornwall, on the other hand, is one of the largest organic farms in the United Kingdom. John, my father, the eleventh Earl of Trevethick, had pioneered organic farming while all his contemporaries had sneered at his initiative. More recently, to diversify the Trevethick portfolio and increase revenues, Kit had conceived and built a development of luxury holiday houses on the edge of the estate. They are in demand, especially in the summer.
“Now, we need to discuss how you intend to use the estates going forward and the level of staffing you’ll need.”
“Oh?”
My heart sinks, and I struggle to remain engaged as Oliver drones on. My mind wanders. Tomorrow Alessia will be back. She’s the only staff member I’m interested in at the moment, and for all the wrong reasons. This morning’s punishing workout in the gym has done little to lessen my fascination with her.
I’m enthralled, and I don’t even know the girl.
My phone buzzes, and I have a text from Caroline. As I read her words, my scalp tingles and my throat tightens.
I’m not pregnant. :’(
I have nothing of Kit’s.
Not even his child.
Shit! My grief rises from nowhere, ambushing me.
“Oliver, we’re going to have to call it a day. Something’s come up.”
“Yes, sir,” Oliver responds. “Tomorrow?”
“Yeah. Why don’t you come to the flat tomorrow, midmorning?”
“Will do, my—Maxim.”
>
“Good. Thank you.”
I type out a reply to Caroline.
I’m coming over.
No. I want to go out.
Let’s get drunk.
OK. Where?
Are you home?
No. At the office.
Okay. I’ll join you in town.
Loulou’s?
No. Soho House.
Greek Street.
I’ll know fewer people.
I’ll see you there.
The private members’ club is crowded, but I manage to find a table on the second floor near the blazing fire. I prefer the intimacy of 5 Hertford Street, which I consider my club—but I’m a member of Soho House, too—as is Caroline. I take a seat, and I don’t have to wait long before she appears. She looks tired, and sad, and thin. Her mouth is turned down and her eyes clouded and puffy. Her blond bob is dull and unkempt, and she’s dressed in jeans and a sweater. Kit’s sweater. This is not the effervescent Caroline I know. My heart aches as she approaches. I see my own grief engraved on her face.
I stand but say nothing as she walks into my arms, and I hold her close.
She sniffles.
“Hey,” I whisper against her hair.
“Life’s shit,” she murmurs.
“I know.” I hope my tone is soothing. “Do you want to sit? If you sit facing me, no one will see that you’re upset.”
“Do I look that bad?” She sounds offended, though a little amused. It’s a glimpse of the Caroline I know. I kiss her forehead.
“Never, darling Caro.”
She shrugs out of my hold. “You charmer,” she grumbles, though I can tell she isn’t angry. She sits down in the velvet chair facing me.
“What would you like to drink?”
