by Bloom, Anna
Eli meets my questioning gaze. “I don’t know.” He’s unsure, turning his attention towards his mum. “Mother, did you let Dad know about Peter?”
She swallows hard. “No need.”
He opens his mouth to say something else, but she holds up her hand.
“No. I won’t discuss it.”
The crust of the mouthful of quiche I’m chewing gets stuck in my throat. I swallow hard and open my mouth, but Eli shoots me a look.
This is ridiculous. So Peter’s dad isn’t going to know he’s dead? I mean, I know he left years ago, but still. Peter is his son.
“We will need to contact Peter’s friends as well, won’t we? I don’t mind helping with that. Do you have access to an address book, or his contacts I can use?”
Silence.
Connie—I’m such a mental nana—clears her throat. “That’s generous of you, Faith.” She makes it sound like it’s the most ungenerous thing I could offer. I’m Ebenezer Scrooge on Christmas Eve. “But that won’t be necessary.”
“Have you told them already?” I frown. I know for a fact it took us around five days to talk to all Al’s friends, and that was split between myself, Dan, and Abi. Although obviously our call time was hindered by vodka and sporadic crying.
“It won’t be necessary. Everything will be taken care of.” She cuts me off without a second glance and Jennifer plasters a fake smile on her face. The woman in tears yesterday seems to be evaporating under the watchful eye of her own mother.
It’s fucked-up shit. Even for me.
“So.” Jennifer claps her hands as though she’s about to open the local village fete. “Elijah, I see you have been keeping some secrets, if Faith’s new piece of jewellery is anything to go by.”
I almost choke on the pastry I’ve shoved in my mouth. It’s my third slice of quiche but I don’t think anyone other than me is counting.
Eli’s face pales and our eyes meet across the table. “Mother, this isn’t the time.”
“Oh, of course it is. Peter loved a celebration; it will cheer us all up.”
The look on Lewis' face is a picture and I have to force my gaze away, trapping the snort of laughter I have building deep inside.
“Mother, no.” Eli’s voice is flat and firm. It cuts off my building giggle.
She gets up from her chair, smoothing down her black skirt and steps around to me. “Let me see then, Faith.”
Eli is almost carved from stone, his eyes burning, as I, trapped like a quarry down the end of a rifle, lift my left hand to show her the ring Eli had made.
“Ah, how pretty, it matches the one you made for him.” Pretty… Is she mad? It’s beautiful, perfect, and delicate. What she means by pretty is that it isn’t big enough to sink the Titanic.
“Yes.” I laugh although it’s pitched all wrong. You could hear a pin drop in this room.
“Although this is slightly more professional; really get your name out there in social circles.”
She perches a hip on the table next to me. Oh God, she’s going to actually talk to me. “Now don’t undersell yourself, Faith. I hear you are going to be a TV star and your work is in the Tate. What we all need is an Engagement Ball.”
“No,” Eli and I both say at the same time. Our eyes meet across the table and the ice within the depths of the blues defrosts just a little.
“No Balls, thank you,” I add. Unwillingly.
“Well anyway,” Connie calls the attention back to her end of the table where she is sitting like the frigging queen. “I’ve instructed Blanchards to pack and move you into Chesham Place.”
“Excuse me.” Eli adopts that calm manner which normally means he’s boiling on the inside. “You did what?”
“Elijah. You are the heir now.” Connie’s look is pointed. “You shall move into Chesham Place as is the right thing to do.”
Eli erupts from his seat and it crashes to the ground, splintering and cracking. “Can we wait for my brother’s body to be in the ground before you start to throw his belongings out with the trash?”
“Elijah,” Connie snaps. “Please refrain from raising your voice in the dining room.”
He stares at her wildly and my own heart thumps in my chest. Splinters are appearing in his countenance, his skin deadly pale. “I will not move into that place. It’s my brother's home.”
He glares at us all, his fingers curled into tight balls, and then he turns on his heel and storms out of the dining room.
The silence he leaves behind is as awkward as fuck. Tabitha’s sniffs fill the air and Connie’s sharp gaze lands on me. “It’s funny, I don’t remember him being so dramatic before he met you.”
I meet her appraisal with a steady calm. What she means is that he never used to say no before he met me.
I ignore her, although it’s not easy with the death glare she’s sending me. I think she believes her eyes are lasers and she’s going to burn me into the ground; well she’s not. Instead I turn to Jennifer who is still next to me, frozen almost, like one of the many statues that inhabit Bowsley. “What the hell is Chesham Place?”
* * *
I find him eventually, although honestly, I’m knackered. This place is a ridiculous size. It’s as I walk the stairs to the attic, I remember that Eli is heir now. We will one day have to live here.
It seems too far off in the future though to worry about. Jennifer is still alive and kicking, and who knows what could happen in the meantime. A great big gaping hole could appear and swallow the damn place up whole; a girl can dream.
“Hey.” I think I kind of knew he’d be up here, but at least my search gave him time to cool down and got me some much-needed exercise.
He’s staring out of the window. I don’t know why I thought he’d be painting, or sketching, but he’s just staring at the glass pane, his eyes not focused on the outside but rather watching droplets of rain splatter against the glass and then race themselves to the bottom.
“Sorry I left you.” He doesn’t turn to look at me. “It was suffocating.”
“It’s Bowsley,” I say. “If it wasn’t suffocating, I’d be worried we were in the wrong place.” I step forward and wrap my arms around him from behind, resting my chin on his shoulder and joining in with the game of watching the raindrops.
We stand in silence, two figures embracing, carved in grief and stone.
“The way I feel now… I should have fought harder to see you after Al died. I shouldn’t have let Dan turn me away. Knowing you hurt like this and I wasn’t there. It makes me fucking livid.”
“Eli.” I turn him so we are chest to chest, toe to toe. “I probably wouldn’t have let you in anyway. I shut down in my grief. I couldn’t do anything. I was so angry.”
“I made your losing Al so much worse, didn’t I?”
“Death and grief are bad anyway.”
“It hurts so bad. I thought Dad leaving was going to be the worst thing I’d live through; the pain was unbearable.” His nose brushes mine and I want to kiss him so bad, but I also want him to talk. “But losing Pete is so much worse. I keep waiting for him to walk in and tell me to stop being a dick. To sneer at me about my loser pro-bono cases, but underneath all of the shit he used to give me I knew he was proud.”
“I’m sorry.” A tear trickles down my cheek and he catches it with his thumb. “I don’t know what to say to try to make this better.”
Slowly he shakes his head. “You don’t have to try to make things better. This just isn’t how I expected our engagement to start, and then with Mother mentioning having an engagement ball. I mean, Faith? How can she be thinking like that?”
“Maybe it’s just her coping mechanism?”
“Or maybe it’s just a sign of how deeply fucked-up this family is. Peter is dead, and the words 'let's have a ball', came out of her mouth.”
“Eli.” I catch his face tenderly in the palm of my hands. “We don’t have to do anything we don’t want to. If we can remember that, then we will always be safe. Th
is is you and me. It's us, our choices and nothing else matters.”
For a long searching moment his gaze meets mine. “Yes.” A slow smile curves his lips and I notice the cuts seem to be holding together more. That’s good progress, I think. “Is it wrong, my brother is lying in a morgue and I want to make love to you right now?”
I grin, stupid and wide. “I’d say that sounds pretty normal to me. But you are far too inj—”
His mouth lands on mine, cutting off my excuses. It takes only a moment for me to get used to the different feel of his swollen lips, then my body slides closer until our arms can wrap tightly around one another. His hands slowly rise to tangle with my hair, anchoring my face to his. Ripples of anticipation scoot across my skin, and I let out of a low moan with their arrival. Every fibre of my body is on high alert. We haven’t been together since the morning of his birthday, but it feels like decades. Warmth spreads along my insides, making my limbs heavy. His arms tighten and I press closer against his chest, his breath pushing us closer together still. Our tongues dance, gentle and light at first, pecking kisses and explorative flicks until I break the kiss and pull back. Watching him, my eyes never leaving his face, I pull my t-shirt up and over my head, dropping it to the floor. His eyes drink in my ink. He’s seen them hundreds of times, but his expression is always like the first time, a mixture of awe and hot desire. Unbuttoning my jeans, I edge them down my hips, stepping out of them until I’m in front of him in just my black lace underwear. His hand slides around my hip, slipping into the grooves of my shape and pulling me closer again. His desire presses against me and I rub my bare skin along him loving the feel of the rough denim brushing my flesh. He groans, breathing into my neck. “I want you so much.”
A burning fire lights in the pit of my stomach. Hot and tingling, it travels between my legs where it pools, desperate to be extinguished. With rushing fingers, I pull at the buttons on his jeans and he yanks his t-shirt and jumper over his head. Across his ribs, blue and purple splashes decorate his skin until it’s as patterned as mine.
“I don’t want to hurt you.” I almost groan into his mouth; my need for him overrules all logical thought.
“You won’t.” With firm fingers he drags at the elastic of my knickers, pushing them down and out of the way. Then his arms are around me, holding me tight in an all-embracing hold as he edges us back towards the wall. I gasp as my back hits the cool surface, while his mouth drops to my throat with burning hot kisses, so I’m trapped between heat and cold; suspended between pain and pleasure.
“Please, Elijah.” His eyes meet mine and sliding a hand around my hip and down my thigh, he hikes my leg around his hip, tipping me slightly so I lean back. My eyes close as he slides his length along my sensitive folds, pressing against my clit. I’m strung up with hypersensitivity. Every moment is like it’s all brand new. As if it’s been years, not a handful of days, since he last touched me. “Please.” I clutch my hands around his waist, trying to pull him closer, but he holds the power. With me helpless against the wall he teases me, running in and out until the tingle of an orgasm builds in my toes before he’s even entered me.
“I love it when you beg.”
“I’m begging.” I splay my hands against his chest, throwing my head back; my eyes searching the ceiling for any distraction that will make the rising peak dissipate. “Fuck, Elijah. I’m begging.”
“Come.” His eyes flash. He’s not going to give me what I want until I give him what he wants. I can’t fight it. Blasting tremors flood me and a small sob escapes my lips. His hands grasp me tighter, pinning me back as he finally slips inside, filling me up as I ride my orgasm. The shudders stretch out until I don’t think they will end. When they begin to abate, he rocks himself deep within me, pushing so hard he’s all but overtaking my body. Harder and deeper, another wave climbs up my legs, threatening to pull me down to a seabed of desire from which I might never recover. Opening my eyes, I find his own closed, a piercing line of pain marking his forehead.
“Eli, stop. It’s hurting you.”
He doesn’t, though; he just comes closer, taking the pain of our bodies pressing tight together. His determination sends me over the edge, and I spiral with another shudder and I scream. His hands tighten one last time and he thrusts deep inside, joining us in such a way it feels like we will never be able to separate.
When he meets my expectant gaze, he has the grace to look sheepish. “Eli, you shouldn’t have done that.”
“But I just love fucking you against a wall.”
I flush at his words, which is totally un-badass. “Are you sore?”
“No.” He raises a cocky eyebrow. “You?”
I chuckle and loop my hands around his neck. “I love you so damn much.”
His mouth lands on mine, hard and hot. “I love you. Sorry we had sex against a wall.”
Pushing him back, I wink. “Always a pleasure to be fucked against a wall by you.”
Chuckling, he tugs me in for a cuddle. It doesn’t matter we are stood in the attic at Bowsley, both of us butt naked—apart from my bra, which miraculously survived his desperate fingers. “I don’t know what I did to deserve you, but God, I’m glad I did.”
“Feeling better?” I peck a kiss on his lips. I know sex won’t erase his grief, but maybe it will ease it for a moment.
He nods, linking fingers with mine. “I’m sorry I stormed off.”
“It’s okay, you were only one step ahead of me. But we agreed to become husband and wife. We both knew what it was going to be like with your family.”
“I wasn’t expecting my mother to suggest an engagement party before my brother is even buried.”
“She’s crazy. But we knew that.”
“Did you?” His gorgeous face is still for a long moment, serious. “Did you really know what you were marrying into?”
I pause for a moment, choosing my words. I want him to understand. “When I came back to London to find you, it was because I no longer wanted to run. The only direction I will ever run in again will be towards you. No matter what happens. No matter what shit comes our way. That is my promise, as long as we live and breathe, and maybe even after that.”
We watch one another.
Silent.
Our breathing is heavy and laboured.
“I won’t have them trying to scare you off again.”
“Where are they going to scare me off to, Eli? I’ve only got you to go to. You are it. My home.”
“But…”
“No buts. So they can talk about balls, once Peter is buried, whatever. I’ll take it all. Just so long as you keep fucking me against walls and I get to call you my husband.”
His smile is slow, his eyes bright. “I love you.”
“So you keep saying. Now, if you’ve finished this afternoon's activity, I’ve got an idea.”
He lifts an arched, dark eyebrow. “Yes?”
“We are going to see our new home.”
“But it’s Peter’s.”
I grin up at him, pushing my hair out of my face. “Exactly. Jeez, and you’re the barrister.”
His eyes watch me. “You want to go find his friends, don’t you?”
“Yep.”
“Peter was very private, even I don’t know what went on behind closed doors.”
“Well let's go and find out who your brother was so we can remember him with all the love and honour he deserves.”
Eli’s eyes fill with shining pools of water, but he smiles and blinks it away. “Let's.”
Four
“What the fuck is this?” I’m frozen on the leather seat of the Range Rover, my eyes glued at the view on the other side of the glass. “You know there is no way I can live somewhere like that? I won’t even be let through the door.”
Chesham Place is one of those London houses where the Regency period has stood the test of time. Three storeys with grand white pillars supporting the front portico; it has steps leading up to a huge black front door, with a bra
ss knocker that looks so sturdy knocking could create a sweat. It’s the sort of place you’d expect a foreign ambassador to live in. In fact, I think they do.
“Yep. This is the Fairclough London residence. The heir always lives here, but access is granted to the Baron, or Baroness.”
“Nice. Since when?”
His lips quirk a little. “Since, I don’t know. Since hell was created.”
I snort and squeeze his hand which still rests on the gear stick. “Excellent. I should fit into hell just perfectly.”
Eli’s own gaze settles on the imposing building. There is literally nothing discreet about it; it shines and glistens, exuding exclusivity and wealth. “Peter loved it. Being an investment banker, he thought he was the dog's bollocks entertaining clients in there…” he trails off and I squeeze his hand again.
“You okay?"
He clears his throat. “Yeah.” His nod is slow. “I keep forgetting he’s gone. Speaking about him in the past tense just feels all…”
“Odd?” I suggest when he runs out of words again.
Eli nods his head slowly. “Going in there and knowing we are invading his privacy seems wrong.”
“But leaving it your wicked grandmother or mother would be worse. At least this way we might be able to give Peter a decent goodbye.”
When he meets my gaze, I want to take away all the pain. I’d absorb it into myself if I could. I’d take it all. “You're right.” His voice is gruff, gravelly, and it makes my stomach tighten.
“So how does this work? This place. It’s not a home we have to buy, or have a mortgage on?”
His lips quirk. “Faith, we won’t ever have a mortgage. You get that, yes?”
My eyes roll back in my head. “Okay, Lord of the Manor. Some of us grew up in the real world.”
“Faith.” He leans closer, brushing his lips against mine, so gently I catch my breath as a fire lights and flames in my insides. “It’s got nothing to do with the Faircloughs. I do well, even without the Fairclough name. I’ve made good investments.”
“Well, aren’t you Mr Grown-Up.”
