No Ordinary Gentleman

Griffin makes a chiding sound, a click of teeth and tongue. “That was unkind, Alexander. To you, not me,” he adds, glancing my way.

“Oh, I’m aware. Believe me.”

“We’re only half-brothers and not really friends. So, in answer, it was a surprise to see you here. But whatever he’s told you,” he adds, pushing from the desk, “it’ll be the truth.” He appears to consider his own words for a moment before adding, “Mostly.”

“Thank you,” I murmur, not really sure why as I glance down at my feet. Was that supposed to make me feel better or worse?

Griffin pauses at the door. Whether for dramatic effect, I’m also not sure. “Families are complicated,” he says. “This one more than most.”

He has barely one foot out of the door when I brush past him.

“Holland!” Alexander calls.

But I can’t get away from him quick enough.

22

Alexander

“What was all that about?” At the end of the busy service hallway, I watch as Chrissy catches Holland by the hand. “Are you okay, lass?”

“I’m fine,” Holland replies defensively, her words overly loud. “And he’s an asshole.”

A frown creases my brow. I think that’s the first time I’ve heard her curse. Well done, Dalforth. Congratulations on being a complete dick, I think as I stride along the hallway. And that’s definitely the first time Chrissy has sent me a reproachful look. A look that causes Holly’s gaze to flick over her shoulder. As our gazes meet, hers quite clearly says fuck you.

“Ye can’nae say things like that about a duke,” Chrissy chides, purely for proprieties sake because the look on her face tells me she’ll have questions. There’s no fobbing off the woman who runs this house. There never has been.

But I am still the duke.

“Leave us,” my voice booms. I’m not the kind of employer that yells or demands, but there’s a certain satisfaction to be felt as the bodies melt into other spaces leaving only Holland, Chrissy, and myself. Didn’t I ask for something to throw off my recent mood? My ennui? Well, it looks like I’ve gotten it. My blood rages hot through my veins, my cock as hard as a tent pole.

“Holland,” I call out haughtily, warming to my part. “You have fifteen minutes to get your arse into the dining room. Fifteen minutes,” I repeat, allowing my gaze to fall disdainfully over her, “to find yourself something more suitable to wear.”

“But this is what the girls always wear,” Chrissy replies, stepping in front of the object of my desire. “Mr McCain saw to her outfit himself.”

I do not like the sound of that, though the sordid implications are purely my own. Not for the first time, I want to throw the woman over my shoulder and drag her back to my bedroom. But now is time for the duke to come out, not the caveman.

“Be that as it may, but Holland’s attendance is required as a guest at the table this evening.”

“You can’t make me—” Holland begins, stepping around Chrissy, her colours flying. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her cheeks so red.

“In this house, you’ll find I can do what I want.”

Both women’s jaws fall open, and how I manage not to laugh, I’ve no idea. But then Holland’s mouth snaps shut, her eyes narrowing on me.

“Not with me, you can’t.”

Twisting my wrist, I glance down at my watch. “Twelve minutes now,” I utter crisply. Uninterested in the extreme. “Unless that is, you’d like to explain to the local police exactly what happened to the statue of Apollo at the bottom of the main staircase.”

It was a calculated guess that pays off dividends.

This time, Holland’s jaw falls open as Chrissy throws me a shrewd look. A look that’s quickly extinguished as Holland’s head whips around, seeking her reassurance. But there are no flies on Chrissy, as the saying goes. She quickly assesses the situation for what it is before offering Holland nothing more than a helpless shrug. What can I do? It seems to say meekly. But Chrissy has never been meek in her life.

“I . . . that is . . . I don’t have anything suitable to wear,” she spits out. It’s hardly a conciliatory response. More irritated.

I glance wearily at my watch again. “Ten minutes now.”

“Urgh! You are going to regret this,” Holland mutters, swinging around.

“I had better not,” I call after her. “The police station in the village is open twenty-four hours.”

Her only response is the stomp of her feet on the stairs.

“I don’t know what you’re up to,” Chrissy begins, watching me sharply. “But I trust you know.”

I incline my head in a conciliatory manner. It seems better than answering with the truth.

“I expect you’ll come and find me tomorrow to explain what this is all about?”

“I will,” I promise, though I’m not sure how I can explain how I need to have Holland with me, not serving me. There’s nothing wrong with honest labour, and this isn’t about where we each stand in the order of things. This is simply a case of my wanting her to be near me, I think. “But for now,” I add, “I must brave McCain’s wrath by asking him to set another place at the table.”